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THE ROUND-UP 








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THE ROUND-UP 

A story of ranchmen , cowboys , rustlers , 

happening in the days when the great 
Southwest was being won for civilization 



OSCAR J. FRIEND 



CHICAGO 

A. C. McCLURG & CO. 

1924 



Copyright 

A. C. McCIurg & v_/u. 
1924 



Published February, 1924 


Copyrighted in Great Britain 


Printed in the United States of America 


M. A. DONOHUE ft CO., PRINTERS AND BINDERS, CHICAGO 

t 



© Cl A 7 7 8 2 5 5 V 




To 

HUGH PENDEXTER 

my friend and kindly critic, is this story of the 
old Southwest affectionately dedicated 

























X 








AUTHOR’S NOTE 


W HILE this story of perhaps the most widely 
known and most maligned part of the old 
Southwest makes no pretense of chronicling his¬ 
tory, being purely a work of fiction, still it does 
not take undue liberties with the country, the time, 
or the people — with the two exceptions that there 
were no open saloons and that the Indian Terri¬ 
tory had no state or county laws and officials until 
admission to statehood in 1907. Therefore, if 
the reader will mentally place the judge upon a 
Federal bench, substitute a United States Marshal 
for the sheriff, and a deputy marshal for the dep¬ 
uty sheriff this novel will be found a fairly faith¬ 
ful presentation of this last frontier of the bad 
gunman and the outlaw. 


Oscar J. Friend. 



CONTENTS 

CHAPTER PAGE 

Prologue. I 

I Card Practice. 9 

II Poker . 21 

III Gamblers’ Prerogative. 33 

IV On the Proper Preparation of a Cobbler 48 

V Jackson Scores .....•< 63 

VI Jack Regrets His Promise. 75 

VII An Interview with the Sheriff.........1 88 

VIII Owens’Complicity.. 97 

IX A Peach Adjustment. 109 

X Murder! .. .... . 124 

XI A Bonded Vagabond..... 135 

XII Target Practice and Lame Horses. 152 

XIII Harrison Starts Things. .... 166 

XIV The Man from Rockhouse Canyon. 177 

XV Missing — One Cowpuncher .... 189 

XVI Judge Ryan Calls.... 203 

XVII And So Does Another. 214 

XVIII MacGregor Gap . 225 

XIX A Mexican Interlude. 235 

XX A Chinese Solution. 244 

XXI To Capture Nightbird. .. 259 

XXII The Missing Bondsman...278 

XXIII The Outrage .. 288 

XXIV Cowmen Ride . .... 299 

XXV The Shortcut .. 313 

XXVI Retribution .. 324 

XXVII Devil’s Hole ....... 335 

XXVIII Trapped . 348 

XXIX Nightbird . 358 

XXX Conclusion . 365 

































The Round-Up 

PROLOGUE 

T HE road followed the winding and rising 
foothills, here a sandy pass, there a rocky 
trail, through wooded gaps and at the bottom of 
barren canyons, ever ascending toward the wilder¬ 
ness of the Kimish Mountains. Somewhere to the 
north Mount Magazine reared its stately head, 
highest point between the two mighty chains of 
mountains which stood like tremendous bulwarks 
along the east and the west coasts of God’s 
country. 

The wagon had once been a sprightly painted, 
sturdy structure, a delight of red wheels and green 
body. But that had been long ago and the sun 
and the weather had been so merciless that no 
particle of its former glory remained. The wood 
was weather-worn to a deep gray in which the 
very fibers of the original tree now showed. Bit 
by bit, the bed had been replaced with rough-hewn 
boards of pine and oak. But the steel rims were 
good, the spokes were strong and the vehicle held 
firmly together. And the two horses that pulled 
the wagon were strong, capable specimens of horse 
flesh. 

The man who drove the team was an ordinary 
looking individual. His hat was a greasy, bat- 


i 


2 


Prologue 


tered felt that had once cost two-fifty at the 
general store in Waldron. His shirt was of faded 
blue like his denim, patched overalls. His feet 
were encased in a pair of rough brogans of cow¬ 
hide, He needed a shave. He was dusty and 
smelled strongly of sweat, the back of his shirt 
and his armpits wet with moisture. His hair was 
uncut and dirty looking. Altogether, he was not 
an alluring picture for an esthete. 

But Hugh Martin’s eyes were of a kindly blue, 
a quizzical, friendly gleam in them that made 
friends instantly with stray dogs and stubborn 
horses. He spat over the edge of the right wheel, 
a tiny globule of tobacco-stained saliva clinging 
unheeded to his chin, and gazed about him at the 
rising hills with deep appreciation. 

It was early summer in the year 1888 and 
Martin was returning from his semiannual forty- 
mile trip to the railroad for hunting and fishing 
supplies. In the wagon behind him was piled a 
scant six months supply of “ store-bought ” grocer¬ 
ies. Within reach of his hand lay his double- 
barreled shotgun, for this southerly-flung tendril 
of the Ozark Mountains fairly teemed with wild 
game. 

It was just as he dipped into a little vale be¬ 
fore ascending a steeper grade that he saw the 
wearily plodding figure before him. The walker 
turned his head at the sound of jingling harness 
and rumbling wheels. He halted under the shade 
of a young oak and shoved back his hat. 



Prologue 


3 


As Martin drew abreast of the other he halted 
his team. 

“Goin’ fer?” he asked genially. 

“Yep. Texas/’ returned the walker. 

“ I kin give ye uh twenty mile lift. Sorry I 
ain’t goin’ no further, stranger. C’mon an’ climb 
in.” 

“ I’m shorely much obliged,” thanked the walk¬ 
ing man. “ I’m powerful tired.” 

He climbed over the lefthand wheel, a heavy 
powerful figure of a man, and relaxed in the hot, 
springless seat with a sigh of relief. Martin 
spoke to his team and they moved on. 

“Likely team yuh got, friend,” commented the 
stranger after a brief appraisal. 

“ Prince and Dollie make uh purty good pair,” 
agreed Martin. “They’re half-brother an’ sister. 
Dollie’s six an’ Prince’s four. My name’s Martin, 
Mister.” 

“—to meetcha. Mine’s Thompson. I come 
from southern Missouri.” 

“This ain’t uh very good way to Texas from 
Missouri,” said Martin. “Now, ’round th’ough 
Oklahoma is uh more likely way. These here hills 
is mighty rough.” 

“ Uh huh,” grunted Thompson. “ So I found 
out. Arkansaw is all rough country, ain’t it?” 

“T’ain’t so bad to th’ east an’ south,” defended 
Martin. “ Hit’s uh plumb good state an’ she’s 
gonna ’mount to sumpin’ some day.” 

“Yuh live hereabouts?” queried Thompson. 



4 


Prologue 


“ ’Bout twenty mile up in th’ mountings. I been 
to th’ railroad after supplies. Ye’re travelin’ 
kinda light fer sich uh long trip, ain’t ye? Better 
stop over fer uh short spell. This country ain’t 
so thickly settled. Mebbe ye might like to stay. 
They’s good huntin’ an’ fishin’ an’ in th’ fall an’ 
winter they’s good trappin’.” 

Thompson studied his companion in lazy con¬ 
tentment as the other described the virtues of 
these barren hills. A life lost amid such surround¬ 
ings was unthinkable — but Martin did have a 
good team, and riding in a battered farm wagon 
filled with six months’ supplies beat walking by a 
whole lot. He half-closed his eyes and watched 
the sleek backs of the bobbing horses. 

Martin chatted on, unmindful of his dozing 
listener, pointing out spots where bear had been 
killed, where John Tander had lost his life, where 
Zeke Ryttle’s cabin burned down in the feud with 
the Lilfields. He expressed his contempt for 
the “revenuers” in no uncertain terms and was 
no less vehement in his regard for his beloved 
hills. 

“ Why don’tcha put uh cover on yore wagon?” 
asked Thompson suddenly. 

“I generally do when th’ wimminfolks goes 
with me. But I was in uh hurry yestiddy an’ I 
couldn’t find th’ bows. Th’ sheet is layin’ under 
thet stuff in th’ wagon.” 

“ Oh! Yuh go down one day an’ come back th’ 
next?” 



Prologue 


5 


“Sometimes hit takes longer. Jes’ depends. I 
never stay longer’n three or four days no time.” 

Thompson relapsed into silence. 

“Now if ye want to stop fer uh spell,” con¬ 
tinued Martin hospitably, “I’ll jes’ drive ye right 
on up to my place an’ th’ woman kin put ye up 
fer uh bit. But if ye want to go on, I’ll pint out 
th’ best road th’ough th’ mountings. They’s three 
forks up further.” 

“ Point ’er out,” said Thompson. 

They rode for a time without speaking, Thomp¬ 
son lost in introspection. A turn in the road ahead 
brought three branches to the trail into view. 

“Th’ left fork leads kinda south an’ towards 
Texas,” said Martin, “but hit’s purty rough. Th’ 
middle fork leads west into th’ Indian Territory. 
She’s uh purty fair trail but th’ people’re purty 
bad they tell me. Up ’long th’ border ’round 
Fort Smith, they claim they is bad uns. Th’ right- 
hand fork goes up ’long th’ creek to my place an’ 
uh few settlers out that way.” 

“How far up this way yuh live?” queried 
Thompson. 

“ ’Bout fifteen mile.” 

“ Don’t they nobody live ’round here ? ” 

“Nope.” 

“Alright. Drive on up th’ righthand fork. I’ll 
go with yuh for uh while,” announced Thompson. 

Pleasantly surprised, Martin turned his horses 
into the homeward trail and leaned forward to 
speak to them. 



6 


Prologue 


“Yuh say they’s much shootin’ ’round here?” 
asked Thompson carelessly, reaching back and 
drawing the shotgun to him. 

“Lots,” stated Martin. “Too late in th’ 
season fer turkey now though. Be keerful! Th’ 
gun’s loaded. Ye kin git plenty of squirrels now. 
Oughta have uh rifle fer thet though. Git ’long 
thar, Dollie. Don’t make Prince do hit all. Yes- 
sir, this is uh fine pair of hosses. I-” 

There was a deafening explosion and the gun in 
Thompson’s hand kicked violently against the dis¬ 
charge. The left half of Martin’s head seemed 
to jump off and disappear into space. He keeled 
forward from the shock of the heavy shot, the 
reins falling from his nerveless hands. 

The pair of horses jumped in terror at the 
sound of the shot and sprang forward in a runa¬ 
way gait. Thompson dropped the gun, which fell 
out into the road, and caught the falling Martin 
with one muscular hand while he grasped the reins 
with another. 

Tumbling his victim back into the wagon he 
quickly brought the startled team to a halt. Get¬ 
ting out, he proceeded to quiet the animals while 
he looked sharply up and down the trail for signs 
of other travelers. He saw nothing but the shim¬ 
mering heat waves along the road and heard noth¬ 
ing but the insect life of the wooded slopes about 
him. 

Quickly he tumbled the body of the murdered 
man out into the road and went through the pock- 




Prologue 


7 


ets. Several sweaty paper dollars and a broken- 
bladed knife were the net results. He pocketed 
these items and climbed back into the wagon. 
Glancing callously at the body lying there in the 
dusty road, he turned the surprised horses around 
and whipped them into a gallop. 

At the forks, he chose the middle branch and 
turned the unwilling animals into this trail. Stop¬ 
ping to look back and to listen, he spoke to the 
horses and drove off into the late afternoon. 



/ 



CHAPTER I 

CARD PRACTICE 

R AIN! Not a sudden shower of light, gentle 
mist; not a lazy sprinkle of great silver 
drops; not a tempestuous downpour of sullen 
roaring water, but a steady soggy dripping that 
told of hours of rain yet to come. It was one 
of those spirit-sapping all-day rains that some¬ 
times deluge the great Southwest in the fall. 

The main and, in fact, the only real street of 
Lebanon was a slough of sticky and deceptive 
mud. From Dallas Corner to the river landing, 
a distance of twelve struggling and straggling 
blocks, one could easily have become mired down 
to the hips in many treacherous spots in the cling¬ 
ing, gummy mud and clay if one left the sanctity 
of the stone-slab sidewalks. In truth, the street 
was so bad in wet weather that the mountaineers 
from the Ozarks, in coming down from their high¬ 
lands, hitched their extra team of oxen behind 
their wagons of produce to save the beasts for 
that terrible pull down the main street of this 
Indian Territory town. Two teams of oxen could 
scarcely drag a single wagon to the freight land¬ 
ing at the river’s edge. The wagon would mire 
9 


IO 


The Round-Up 


down below the axles, the oxen would flounder 
almost helplessly up to their bellies. 

Just why the little town had wiggled out of the 
sticky, slippery red clay beneath its feet and 
spread itself over the gummy father of aluminum 
and why it continued to exist could be attributed 
to but one cause — whiskey. 

Waiving its somewhat strenuous and lurid past, 
Lebanon still survived as a vicious outpost of 
lawlessness in the year 1892, even while civiliza¬ 
tion, law, and order overtook and passed it, con¬ 
tinuing on their inexorable way westward. Yet, 
that the wild days of the seventies and eighties 
were gone forever was obvious in the gradual 
passing of the bad Indian, the outlaw and the 
reckless gunman. It lacked but a scant four years 
until the United States Criminal Court at Fort 
Smith, Arkansas, on the border was to be ad¬ 
journed, having cleaned up the dangerous gangs 
of western Arkansas and the Indian Territory. 

Probably at the close of the nineteenth century, 
the Texas Hotel in Lebanon was the last real 
stronghold of the brothers of the cards, the run¬ 
ning iron, and the gun. It was really a pretentious 
place, one of the five three-storied buildings in 
Lebanon, built of brick, and offering fairly clean 
rooms and good food. Perhaps the irresistible 
attraction of food was greatly instrumental in 
keeping the hotel from being closed by the hardy 
ranchers and citizens. For, in those days, good 
food was a rarity. A chef was unknown. 



Card Practice 


ii 


But that civilization still had much work to do 
was apparent in the fact that Lebanon boasted 
of fifty-four saloons in a territory where it was 
a government offense to introduce or sell liquor. 

Two men stood in the doorway of the hotel 
looking out on the plasticity of the street, watch¬ 
ing the rain render it yet more impassable. 

“ What a rotten excuse for a street,” said one 
disgustedly. “Why didn’t you tell me, Carter, 
that you had no streets in this forsaken slough? 
I’d have brought my waders. This weather will 
ruin the cattlemen’s convention.” 

“ My dear Jackson, we cannot control the 
weather here any more than you can in Chicago,” 
drawled Carter. “This matter of streets and 
rain cannot be helped. But the cattlemen are 
used to it, though. You ought to know what they 
have to face in a storm out on the prairie.” 

“ But, damn it, man, you don’t expect to get 
a gambling crowd together, do you? I doubt 
if we can make a table for poker. Surely none 
of the wheels will be in use. Why—why, they 
won’t even get drunk! ” 

“You don’t know this country or the men in 
this country,” returned Carter, and his tone was 
amply expressive. “They——” 

The bellow of a discharged shotgun, followed 
by an answering spatter of six-shooter shots, in¬ 
terrupted Carter’s remark. Almost like a startled 
rattlesnake he jerked back from the doorway and 
glided to the edge of a window. Coolly he peered 




12 


The Round-Up 


out and gazed up and down the street. His cold 
features broke into a grin. 

“ Come here, Jackson,” he called. 

The cause of the disturbance was coming into 
view as Jackson took his place beside the window. 
Twelve teams of oxen were floundering up the 
street, tugging and straining at a great flat-bot¬ 
tomed scow in which were eight or ten men. The 
two foremost men were driving the teams. Four 
or five men were seated at oarlocks and bent 
their backs over imaginary oars in mock propul¬ 
sion of the boat. Two men were firing shotguns 
at several strings of decoy ducks that trailed be¬ 
hind in the mud. All of the men seemed very 
drunk and they all seemed unmindful of the pour¬ 
ing rain. 

As the scow disappeared in the direction of 
Dallas Corner, Carter turned back to the man 
from Chicago: 

“You were saying something about rain, Jack- 
son?” 

Jackson laughed. 

“I retract my statement,” he said. “There 
went a load of easy pickings.” 

“ Men that are drunk and in that happy state 
of mind like to lose money in gambling,” com¬ 
mented Carter sagely. 

“Just what was the idea? Cowpuncher horse¬ 
play?” Jackson was somewhat puzzled. 

“Partly. It looked like a satirizing of the 
street to me. They’re always pulling some kind 



Card Practice 


13 


of funny stuff over this mud and water. Tiiey’ll 
probably drive on up the street, be arrested for 
breach of peace, fined, maybe the fine’ll be re¬ 
mitted, and they’ll be wandering free tonight with 
money to spend. We’ll get our share.” 

“ I’m not so sure,” murmured a third voice just 
behind them and the two gamblers turned swiftly 
to see a lean, lanky, hard-faced man removing his 
dripping slicker and eyeing them sardonically. 

Jackson, a well built, dapper-appearing man 
with cold hard sneering blue eyes, looked mildly 
interested. Carter, the thin man of snake-like 
grace, seemed slightly puzzled. 

“ I’m not so sure that we will get anything off 
of that bunch,” repeated the newcomer. “And 
that is the richest, fastest bunch in town this 
week.” 

“Why not?” shot out Jackson crisply. 
“ What’s wrong? That is, if they like to gamble.” 

“Carter should know,” responded the other. 
“ Didn’t you see who those two men were, driving 
those oxen?” 

“Who?” demanded Carter. “Who? You 
speak in riddles, Tilby.” 

“ The Montagues! That was the DZX bunch. 
And you know Bill Montague,” announced Tilby 
tersely. 

“I am very much afraid that I do not have 
that honor,” drawled Jackson puzzledly. “Who 
is Bill Montague and what about him?” 

“ C’mon up to my room and I’ll tell you,” 



14 


The Round-Up 


replied Tilby. 

Jackson nodded briefly. Carter smiled a trifle 
sickly. The three men filed up the stairs. 

Over a bottle and three little glasses Tilby 
became very communicative and, with an occa¬ 
sional emphatic comment from Carter, enlightened 
the gambler from Chicago. 

“Bill Montague,” explained Tilby, “is an old 
settler in this country. He first came here as a 
plain gambler. That was before my time, but 
they said that he played a hard square game. 
More than one crooked gambler either left town 
just ahead of flying lead or was carried out in 
a pine box after playing with Montague. I don’t 
know about that. But I do know that Bill Mon¬ 
tague quit the cards years ago and turned to 
cattle raising. He is now one of the wealthiest 
men of the Southwest. 

“His ranch is south of here. He comes to 
town occasionally with his men, or part of them, 
and plays with them. They worship him. He 
drinks a bit, talks politics and civic improvements 
and maybe plays a little poker if he has time. 
And he has a son who is growing up just like 
him.” 

“Such a man is a fatted one for the killing,” 
Jackson approved. 

“But there never is a killing,” objected Tilby. 
“ He is too smooth for crooked gamblers. He 
plays a square game until he finds out that the 
other fellow is trying to crook him. Then he 



Card Practice 


15 


crooks the gambler without mercy.” 

‘‘That comes from the heart,” added Carter, 
explaining joyously to the intent Jackson. “He 
trimmed Tilby once. Tilby rung in a cold deck 
on him. On the second deal Montague sat up 
straight in his chair. In ten more hands Tilby 
was busted.” 

Jackson flashed a look at the disgruntled Tilby. 
“You say that this Montague is an old-time 
gambler?” he asked slowly. 

Tilby nodded. 

“ He is wealthy now and only plays for amuse¬ 
ment? He retains his various abilities but al¬ 
ways plays a straight game,” pondered Jackson. 
“Well?” 

“Well,” snapped Tilby, “if he sits in a game 
with you, you’ll have to play straight poker.” 

“Zat so?” Jackson’s eyebrows raised a trifle 
and his eyes hardened. “Well, Tilby, suppose I 
do play a straight game — what about it?” 

“You won’t win any money,” said Tilby blunt¬ 
ly. “ Montague will win and he won’t let any¬ 
body lose too much.” 

The handsome gambler threw back his head 
and laughed. It was a thin wolfish laugh that 
was not good to hear. Even Carter joined in, 
his head moving snakily from side to side as he 
grinned. Tilby scowled disgustedly at the two. 

“You fools,” he snarled angrily. “You’ve 
never seen him work. I have. I know better 
than to try to beat him by crooked poker.” 



i6 


The Round-Up 


Jackson stopped laughing long enough to pour 
himself another drink and to eye Tilby. 

“So friend Montague is such a good poker 
player that you can’t beat him on the straight,” 
he mocked. “And when you try to cheat him, 
he cheats naughty little gamblers himself. Is that 
really the truth?” 

“Absolute.” 

“How does he work his magic?” 

“With the other fellow’s cards and with his 
own sleight-of-hand work.” 

“What sort of sleight-of-hand work?” pur¬ 
sued Jackson seriously, a grim smile making his 
lean, handsome face grow formidable. 

“ I guess he knows all of the tricks of the 
trade,” shrugged Tilby. “And he is simply mar¬ 
velous in card palming.” 

“Card palming? Small town stuff. We had 
to cut that in Chicago years ago.” 

“You haven’t seen Montague work,” said 
Tilby significantly. 

“Bah!” Jackson shrugged his shoulders in 
disgust. “Are you sure, though, that he will 
turn crooked if he finds you dealing a crooked 
game? To what lengths will he go?” 

“ To any lengths.” 

“Are you absolutely certain?” 

“ Of course I am,” snorted Tilby angrily. 
“What are you driving at?” 

“ Doesn’t he fear some of the other players 
might catch him in crooked work and brand him 



Card Practice 


17 


forever as a cheat?” 

It was Tilby’s turn to laugh. “ If a profes¬ 
sional gambler can’t catch him, how do you ex¬ 
pect any other player to do so? Besides, he pro¬ 
tects the other players.” 

“So he preys on gamblers, eh?” sneered Jack- 
son. “A modern Robin Hood! ” 

“Only when they deal a crooked game,” ex¬ 
plained Tilby patiently. 

“Well, what about it?” shot out Jackson. 
“ Do you want to frame him and get away with 
it? Would you like to get him and his money 
at the same time?” 

“Does an Indian drink?” said Tilby bitterly. 

Without a word Jackson produced a new deck 
of cards and broke the seal. He waved at Carter 
to clear the little table and riffled the cards beau¬ 
tifully. The two gamblers watched him with 
interest. 

“First of all,” said Jackson in a smooth, 
hypnotic voice, “let me inform you that this is 
an absolutely new, straight and unmarked deck 
— although that makes no difference in what I 
am going to show you. Now, I have yet to see 
the man who can beat me in handling a deck 
and keep me from knowing what he is doing . I 
have seen one or two better than I, but they 
couldn’t keep me from following their work. 
Now then, gentlemen, I am going to deal a hand 
to each of us. Watch me closely, as closely as 
though you had a thousand Jewish doughnuts 



i8 


The Round-Up 


in the pot and I were Hermann the Great. Are 
you ready?” 

He paused and the two men nodded. Jackson 
smiled lightly and flipped the cards about the 
table. The little pasteboards rustled down like 
a shower of cards, so rapidly did Jackson flip 
them out. He laid the deck down carefully in 
the center of the table and smiled blithely at his 
companions. 

“Now, Mr. Tilby, how many cards lay be¬ 
fore you?” he asked. 

“ Five,” responded the gambler promptly. 

“Count ’em,” suggested Jackson. 

Carelessly Tilby spread the cards with a deft 
motion of his hand. At a glance he counted six 
cards. He looked up mildly surprised. Jackson 
turned to Carter. 

“How many cards did I deal you?” he asked. 

“Five.” 

“ Count ’em.” 

Carter investigated the neat pile of little paste¬ 
boards and found the same number as had Tilby. 

“ Rather neat,” he murmured in approbation. 
“ But then you dealt so fast, you probably went 
around six times and we were too careless to 
follow you.” 

For answer Jackson spread his own hand with 
a swift motion of his fingers. There were but 
five cards there. 

“Rather neat?” he sneered. “That is the 
best deal of its kind in the world. It can’t be 



Card Practice 


19 


beat. Now that you know what I am going to 
do, suppose you watch me shuffle the cards and 
tell me who holds six cards at the end of the 
deal.” 

Rapidly he cut and riffled the cards. The paste¬ 
boards leaped like things of life under his in¬ 
credibly swift fingers. It was like the hurried 
movement of some intricate machinery. Carter 
and Tilby were almost hypnotized by the action. 
They tore their eyes from his hands as he paused 
and looked into his smiling, cold blue eyes. 

Then Jackson began to deal. This time his 
every move underwent a close, analyzing scrutiny. 
When he paused at the end of the deal he smiled 
derisively. 

u How many cards have you, Mr. Carter?” 
he asked of the first man. 

“ Five,” responded Carter promptly. 

“Right. How many has Tilby?” 

“He has five this time also.” 

“How many do you think you have?” Jack- 
son asked the second man mockingly. 

“ I know I have five,” answered Tilby de¬ 
cisively. 

“ Count ’em.” 

Tilby did so confidently. His eyes widened 
with wonder as he again found a sixth card in 
his hands. He looked across at Carter, deep 
speculation in his eyes. 

“Flow many cards have you got?” demanded 
Carter suddenly. 



20 


The Round-Up 


“Five,” returned Jackson. “The same number 
you have. I can deal a sixth card anywhere 
about the circle.” 

Carter looked thoughtful. 

“Just a minute,” said Jackson. “Suppose you 
had a pat hand spoiled by that sixth card? Sup¬ 
pose your name was Montague and suppose that 
you already knew the game to be crooked? What 
would you do?” 

“ Montague would play the hand,” announced 
Tilby promptly. 

“I believe he would — from what I know of 
him,” endorsed Carter. 

“That’s what I want to hear. You don’t need 
to add that he would get away with it, Tilby. 
I can see that that is your opinion. Listen to 
me for just a second. Suppose that you were 
playing against Montague and you knew that he 
had that sixth card when he played the hand?” 

The eyes of Tilby and Carter met. A thin 
hard smile showed a glimpse of Jackson’s even 
teeth as he watched them. 



CHAPTER II 

POKER 

W ILLIAM MONTAGUE stood at the up¬ 
per end of the bar in the saloon which 
operated under the name of “ Owens’ Bright 
Star.” He drummed lightly on the counter with 
his lean, tanned fingers, his eyes fixed dreamily 
on the line of noisy, thirsty cowpunchers at the 
bar. 

He was a man in his early fifties, broad of 
shoulder and broad of vision. His steady eyes 
never wavered. They could look into or through 
many things, shining with a friendly blue or dark¬ 
ening with an angry violet. His chin was neither 
receding nor viciously prominent. It was firm, it 
was hard. His nose was straight and long. His 
lips were wide but firm. The ensemble of his 
features expressed resoluteness rather than ruth¬ 
lessness. 

He was clean-shaven and his hair was rapidly 
graying. There were lines about his eyes and 
down each side of his long upper lip. Montague 
looked like a man who possessed poise and re¬ 
serve power and who was fully alive to his own 
freedom and limitations. He had lived, he had 
learned, he had suffered, and life was still sweet 
to him. 


21 


22 


The Round-Up 


Beside him stood a young man in his early 
twenties, an almost exact replica of the older 
man. Jack Montague had the build of his father 
without the latter’s height. His eyes were the 
same, his features cast in the same resolute mold, 
but there was an indefinable softening touch which 
could not be wholely accounted for by his youth. 
It was the softening touch, the artistic tinting of 
a rugged character, as a painter would retouch 
the outlines of a mountain, the heritage left him 
by his mother. It was the refining touch of a 
delicate soul. Where the father could suffer and 
could act, the son could also act but could suffer 
the keener agony. 

The elder Montague carried the weight of his 
fifty-odd years with a lightness comparable to 
his son. He was still one of the hardest working 
men of his outfit even though he no longer spent 
all of his time in the saddle. 

Slightly behind the two Montagues stood a 
thin man, with almost inconceivably long legs. 
He was a man fully the age of the senior Mon¬ 
tague. His hair was grizzled and his face and 
neck were a mass of wrinkles. He was tanned 
to the color of mahogany. He was grimly silent 
and taciturn but his kindly gray eyes and wide 
mouth proclaimed the gentle humor and love for 
a joke that was his birthright. Jim Harrison 
was of Irish descent despite his name. He had 
been with Montague ever since the rancher had 
given up the cards and the old life for the sake 



Poker 


23 


of the woman he loved and married. 

“All right, boys,” said Montague. “You have 
a fairly good start. Don’t wind up in jail. And 
don’t stay up all night. Tomorrow is another 
day.” 

The punchers shouted conglomerate remarks 
which could not have been understood and the 
three men turned and walked out of the saloon. 

It was still raining. Night had fallen and lamp 
and gas lights twinkled behind streaming window 
panes. Young Montague bared his head to the 
driving drops of water, his face upturned to the 
black, weeping heavens. Weather such as this 
filled him with a vague discontent, an urging to 
wander free, roaming and ranging up and down 
the earth. He felt the call of the dark, dripping 
jungles of the tropics, of the cold, clean rain of 
the mountain tops, of the stinging spray and 
rain whipped over the rail of some adventurous 
sailing vessel, of the piercing rain and sleet of 
the icebound northlands. 

His eyes sparkled brilliantly and his wavy hair 
curled a bit more tightly under the effect of the 
moisture. His cheeks glowed with health and 
color and he far outstepped his two companions. 
He stepped into the lobby of the Texa$ Hotel, 
hat crushed in one hand, the other wiping the 
water from his face, a vivid picture of young 
manhood. 

He nearly bumped into a girl who had been 
approaching the door to gaze out into the rainy 



24 


The Round-Up 


street. She stepped back with a little exclama¬ 
tion and looked at the apparition before her in 
wonder. The pearl-gray shirt which clung to the 
muscular shoulders, the wide cartridge belt and 
holster, the plain chaps and serviceable high boots 
proclaimed this handsome newcomer a rider of 
the open range. 

“ Oh! ” she gasped slightly. 

‘‘Good evening,” returned Jack, bowing low 
and sprinkling the girl with raindrops. “A little 
damp this evening — pleasantly so.” 

“Do you like the rain? I thought cowmen 
didn’t like it personally because of its uncomfort¬ 
ableness,” said the girl. 

“ The rain is my weather.” 

“I believe it,” she responded, admiring his 
curling hair and sparkling eyes. “ I like the rain, 
too.” 

Jack looked at her in approval. Her features 
were just irregular enough to enhance her beauty. 
Her hair was a coppery brown that shimmered 
under the lights in the lobby. Her eyes were 
hazel and shone with a spirit which matched his 
own. Her mouth was made for kissing—or 
biting, depending on her mood. 

“Let’s go for a walk, then,” suggested Jack 
instantly. 

She flashed him a swift glance and read noth¬ 
ing but friendly companionableness in his frank 
and admiring gaze. 

“ Isn’t it proper to introduce oneself before 



Poker 


25 


suggesting a promenade?” she countered quickly. 

“Jack Montague, at your service, m’lady. A 
kind-hearted cowboy of the open prairie, mam. 
And you — you’re not the new singer that Owens 
-” he hesitated. 

She drew herself up imperiously. “ I am not,” 
she flashed. “ I am here with my father.” 

“ I am afraid you don’t understand,” said he. 
“There was an opera singer engaged to appear 
here at the Grand Theater next week. I just 
wondered if-——” 

“ Forgive me,” she melted instantly. “ My 
name is Patricia Blaine. Father and I are from 
Mississippi.” 

He smiled. “Not that I think the singer will 
have much luck here singing to the irresponsive 
cowpunchers and bartenders, but it was a perfect¬ 
ly natural mistake. Where is your father, Miss 
Blaine?” 

“I don’t know,” she pouted. “He is consider¬ 
ing locating here, but he can hardly see anybody 
or do anything in this rain. I have been wonder¬ 
ing where he went.” 

“How long have you been here?” he inquired. 

“We just came in this morning. This seemed 
to be the best hotel, and so we came here.” 

Jack nodded, pursing his lips thoughtfully. He 
looked swiftly about the lobby. As he suspected, 
there was more than one leering glance bestowed 
upon the girl. 

“Uuummm — this is a nice building,” he mur- 




26 


The Round-Up 


mured, “ but I can’t say so much for its patronage. 
May I-” 

“Including yourself?” she laughed. 

“I guess so,” he smiled slightly. “I am here 
to gamble. There are gambling rooms up on the 
third floor. May I suggest that you return to 
your room and I will be glad to hunt for your 
father.” 

“What! You a gambler?” she cried. 

“Not professionally. We come to town oc¬ 
casionally to have a light fling with Fortune. She 
generally wins the falls, however.” 

“ Daddy likes to play cards. He might be 
up there,” she mused. 

“ If he is, shall I tell him you w’ant him?” 

“No, no. Let him alone if he’s having any 
fun. He hasn’t had much pleasure since — since 
Mother died.” 

Jack’s eyes widened a trifle. Anything he 
might have said was prevented by the approach 
of a cadaverous-faced, thin-lipped man whose only 
approach to western costume was a pair of boots 
into which his trousers had been ruthlessly stuffed. 

“ Introduce me, young man,” he clipped out, 
smiling a thin smile and boring into the girl’s 
gaze with his slate-gray eyes. 

“ Miss Blaine, this is Mr. Owens, real estate, 
railroad, and Indian agent of Lebanon,” complied 
Jack reluctantly. 

The realtor stepped between the two young peo¬ 
ple, turning his back squarely on young Montague. 




Poker 


27 


Jack’s eyes clouded and his fingers curved as his 
gaze traveled up and down the figure of Owens. 
But Owens’ monopoly of the girl’s attention was 
short lived. 

Montague, senior, and Harrison entered the 
hotel. At sight of the realtor Montague spoke. 

“Owens!” he said. “I was looking for you 
this afternoon. How about those cars you prom¬ 
ised me?” 

As Owens turned toward the speaker Jack 
stepped around him and took Patty Blaine’s arm. 

“Thanks, Dad,” he called. “Anything to save 
physical exertion.” To the girl he said: “ Please 
pardon Mr. Owens. He doesn’t know any better.” 

Owens flashed him a vicious look and went 
to meet the elder Montague. 

“The men here say and do pretty much what 
they please,” pursued Jack in a serious tone. “A 
gentlewoman is really out of place. Won’t you 
take my advice and withdraw from the notice of 
these men?” 

“Do you really think I should?” she asked 
curiously. 

“After you’ve been here several days you’ll 
know that you should,” he returned grimly. 

“But surely there are women in this town?” 

“Yes, but they are either married or well pro¬ 
tected. Your father doesn’t understand the 
roughness of the West, or I am sure he wouldn’t 
have left you alone.” 

She turned to gaze about the great room. For 



28 


The Round-Up 


the first time she became aware of the hard gazes 
and harder visages. For the first time she real¬ 
ized the real helplessness of her position. Pretty 
women always caused dissension along the border 
countries. She suddenly felt very small and far 
away from home. Involuntarily she shrank to¬ 
ward the man at her side. 

Instantly Jack Montague smiled sympathetically. 

“Buck up, little girl. You’ll get used to the 
hard life about you if you stay here. The glories 
of the country compensate for the irregularities 
of the humans in it. There are lots of fine peo¬ 
ple here, but they are not at the Texas Hotel.” 

“You don’t speak like a cowpuncher,” she ven¬ 
tured, as they strolled toward the stairs. “How 
long have you been here?” 

“I was born and reared in this country,” he 
responded. 

“And that fine looking man who just came in 
is really your father?” asked the girl. “Who 
is the long-legged man with him?” 

“That gentleman,” said Jack, smiling, “is Jim 
Harrison, our foreman.” 

They paused before the door of her room and 
chatted for a moment. Then, as the trio behind 
them came forward, Jack bowed to her and turned 
to go up to the third floor with the others. Owens 
glanced at the young couple with an inscrutable 
expression as he stepped ahead with Montague. 
Jack fell in beside Harrison who grinned slightly 
at the back of the discomfited realtor. 



Poker 


29 


There proved to be two poker games in prog¬ 
ress when the four men entered the gambling 
rooms. One, a full handed game of seven players 
who played for small stakes, drifted along des¬ 
ultorily. It was really but a pretense of a game 
to allow the cattlemen to drink and talk. The 
other game was at one of the center tables. There 
were four men playing. Montague recognized 
two of them as Carter and Tilby, two gamblers 
of indifferent reputation. The other two men 
were strangers. 

Owens disappeared and the three DZX men 
drifted about the great room, viewing the va¬ 
rious card lay-outs, playing a coin on the differ¬ 
ent wheels — feeling out the atmosphere of the 
place, as it were. At length the central table 
drew them like a magnet and they shortly stood 
entranced as men will when they gaze on a game 
that is played silently for high stakes. 

A house-man came up to them. 

“You men care to play?” he asked. 

Carter looked up quickly. “We are playing for 
big stakes,” he said shortly. “Still, if they want 
to play, I guess it’ll be all right.” 

“Never mind,” smiled Montague. “Don’t 
bother the gentlemen.” 

One of the strangers looked up and smiled 
pleasantly. 

“Sit right down, sir,” he invited. “Bring us 
some chairs, Jeff.” 

“Do you wish to play, son?” said Montague 



30 


The Round-Up 


turning to Jack. 

“No, thanks,” declined the younger man. 
“You and Jim play. I’ll watch a bit and then 
maybe hit up the wheel.” 

“Thousand dollars change-in,” announced Car¬ 
ter. “Tilby banking. This is Mr. Blaine and 
Mr. Jackson, Mr. Montague and Mr. Harrison.” 

The rancher and his foreman promptly pro¬ 
duced rolls of greenbacks that made Jackson’s 
eyes glisten. They calmly bought in, and the game 
proceeded. All six of the men played careful 
poker and the game dragged a bit before they 
got into a new stride. 

At the introductions Jack looked quickly at the 
man called Blaine. He saw a powerful, dark- 
complexioned man whose eyes burned with a con¬ 
suming fever as he watched the cards. He had 
no difficulty in finding a resemblance to the girl 
he had just left downstairs. He studied the stern 
face which may have been masterful in repose 
but which shone in complete fascination at the 
spell of the cards and he pitied the man who 
could thus be held by the charm of the paste¬ 
boards. 

Blaine sat at Jackson’s left, then came Mon¬ 
tague, Carter, Harrison and Tilby. Young 
Montague watched the game for several hands 
an3 then turned away for a more lively amuse¬ 
ment. 

From small talk as the game progressed, Mon¬ 
tague gathered that Blaine was a farmer from 



Poker 


3i 


Mississippi who had several thousand dollars 
and was looking for a likely location to settle 
upon. Jackson mentioned that he was a cattle 
buyer from Chicago. The rancher diagnosed the 
Mississippian beside him, as had his son. Jackson 
he didn’t like. His disapproval of the cold, pol¬ 
ished Chicagoan was not lessened when he watched 
Jackson deal. “Gambler,” he said instantly to 
himself as he watched those slender white fingers 
all but mold the cards together. 

He settled down in his chair to reason the 
matter out, tossing a white chip into the pot for 
luck. Harrison looked up, eyed the dealer for 
an instant, grunted and looked down at the cards 
falling before him. He had received a tip. 

The luck swung back and forth and the evening 
sped swiftly as it drew nearer to midnight. Mon¬ 
tague was some two or three hundred dollars 
ahead of the game, and he lounged back care¬ 
lessly. Jackson was dealing again. Carelessly 
he upended the deck, exposing the bottom card, 
as he reached for a fallen match. It was the 
ace of hearts. 

Before Montague could call for a cut he had 
begun to deal. The rancher shrugged as the 
matter was not important enough to be picayunish 
over. The betting proceeded, Blaine and Harri¬ 
son staying for the draw with Jackson. Mon¬ 
tague looked on with sleepy eyes as the Chicagoan 
picked up his hand and raised the betting a trifle. 

Blaine had evidently filled a flush or a straight 



32 


The Round-Up 


and he was betting strongly. Harrison trailed, 
keeping the entire table smiling at his running 
fire of comments. Finally the foreman dropped 
out on a really stiff bet from Blaine. Jackson 
hesitated for just an instant and then called the 
bet. 

Blaine laid down a club flush. Jackson smiled 
pleasantly as he spread his hand with a deft snap 
and exposed a full house, aces over treys. 

“ Better luck next time, Mr. Blaine,” he sym¬ 
pathized as he raked in the neat pot. 

There was nothing out of the way in the play, 
but Montague suddenly blinked and shot Jackson 
a hard glance. For one of the aces in the Chi¬ 
cagoan’s full was the ace of hearts that had been 
on the bottom of the deck. Jackson was dealing 
from the “ cellar.” 

As he blinked and stiffened slightly, Jackson 
winked at Tilby who sat moodily at his right. 
The rancher eyed Blaine for a moment with pity. 
Then he carelessly lit a cigarette and slouched 
down once more as Blaine gathered up the cards 
with a laugh and began to shuffle. 




CHAPTER III 

gamblers' prerogative 

F ROM this moment the game underwent a 
stiffening. It was like an electric shock had 
gone around the table. Once Blaine turned 
squarely and gave Montague a searching glance. 
Satisfied with what he saw in the rancher he 
began to heed the signals the rancher’s boot 
played on his left shoe. He began playing as 
cautious a hand as a dour Scot and his foot be¬ 
came almost raw from the various tips and warn¬ 
ings pressed upon it by the cattleman. 

Montague loosened his playing a trifle. He 
grew more careless in his drawing and betting. 
But, with all his looseness, he began to win 
heavily. The stack of chips before him con¬ 
tinued to grow. Harrison and Blaine seemed to 
hold their own. Occasionally one of them would 
win a small pot on Montague’s deal which kept 
them even. 

Gradually the other games closed and a crowd 
began to collect about the card table. Narrowly 
Jackson watched Jack Montague. The young 
man chose to stand behind Harrison and the 
gambler breathed easier. All of the players and 
many of the spectators realized that something 
untoward was in the play. There was a secret, 

33 


34 


The Round-Up 


silent duel of some kind between some of the 
players. Then came the big hand of the evening. 

It was Jackson’s deal. He riffled the cards 
casually, cut them and offered them to Tilby for 
another cut. Tilby refused by lightly tapping 
the deck in sanction of the shuffle. Jackson began 
dealing with his lightning-like shower of cards 
and Montague narrowed his eyes, watching the 
swiftly moving hands — as a cobra follows the 
shrill notes of the pipe. 

Slowly the rancher picked up his hand and 
stared stonily at the ace, king, queen, jack, and 
ten of spades — and also the seven spot of dia¬ 
monds. He had been dealt a perfect hand with 
an extra card. This was no accident. He had 
never seen Jackson before, yet the gambler was 
framing him. The only way such a frame could 
be worked would be for Montague to attempt 
to play the hand. The first crooked deal against 
Blaine had been exposed to him, Montague, pur¬ 
posely. Some one had been talking to Jackson. 
Without looking he could feel the secret exulta¬ 
tion of Tilby. 

He knew that he was alone in his deduction. 
This subtle study in psychology would be beyond 
the blunt Harrison. The foreman was unaware 
of the situation his employer faced at this moment. 
Montague realized that he must either play and 
beat the crooks at their own game as was his wont 
or quit cold. The very devilishness of the plot 
struck him and secretly he admired the brain 



Gamblers’ Prerogative 


35 


that had proposed it. He felt sure it was Jackson. 

But Jackson had dealt, too. Jackson would 
now be through. Who was to play the hand 
against Montague in order to get the cattleman’s 
money on the table before someone cried “ wolf ” ? 
Undoubtedly Blaine would hold a fairly good 
hand and would come in for the plucking also. 
Carter was sitting next to him, an unstrategical 
position from which to play, but an exceptionally 
good place to sit to watch Montague and to grab 
him. Thus, if Jackson were through, and as 
dealer and stranger to Montague, he would be 
through, Tilby was the only gambler left to play 
the hand. And Tilby had the bank behind him 
and he carried a grudge. 

The ranchman settled down in his chair with 
a thin smile on his lips, a steady cold flame in 
his eyes. On account of that sixth card he knew 
his every move was watched — hawklike. Blaine 
had been dealt more than openers, for he now 
opened the pot for one hundred dollars. The 
three gamblers almost held their breath awaiting 
Montague’s decision, for upon his decision hung 
the success or failure of their plot. 

The cattle rancher sighed with well simulated 
regret that he needs must raise a bet on the 
strength of such a poor hand, a sigh that fooled 
Blaine, whom it was not meant to fool, and also 
the three gamblers who thought they understood 
perfectly. They, too, sighed — in relief. 

“ Seems like things are about to break,” drawled 



36 


The Round-Up 


Montague. “ I’ll just have to hike the fee about 
five hundred dollars.” 

Carter tossed in his hand with a murmured, 
“Too much for me,” and sat watching the play. 

" Cerberus, the watch dog,” thought Montague, 
but he continued to smile that thin, inscrutable 
smile. 

Harrison looked at his hand. He eyed Mon¬ 
tague in perplexity. He shifted his gaze to Blaine. 
The newcomer seemed undecided. On the chance 
of filling his probably strong two pairs or threes, 
Blaine might stay for the draw. Harrison 
shrewdly guessed that it had been Montague’s 
intention to freeze the Mississippian out with his 
five-hundred-dollar raise. Blaine acted as though 
he held a small pat hand. It might be a good 
pat hand. Therefore he was liable to stay. With¬ 
out hesitation, Harrison shoved out eleven hun¬ 
dred dollars in chips. 

“ Raise five hundred,” he grunted noncom¬ 
mittally. 

Tilby looked up in swift surprise. Jackson 
shot the DZX foreman a quick glance. Had 
some freak hand come out unintentionally in that 
stacked deal? It was enough to give them com¬ 
plete pause. After the hand was played and all 
of the money was on the table, when they ex¬ 
posed Montague’s sixth card, the next highest 
hand would take the pot. If Harrison had drawn 
a freak hand that outranked Tilby’s, the DZX 
crowd would get away with the money after all. 



Gamblers y Prerogative 


37 


“Do you pass, Tilby?” said Jackson levelly, 
sneeringly. 

Tilby forced himself to look down at his hand. 
“ I call,” he said hoarsely, and he pushed his 
chips to the center of the table. 

“I pass,” said Jackson lightly. 

Blaine began fingering his stack of chips un¬ 
decidedly. A heavy foot pressed upon his har¬ 
assed left pedal extremity. He glared almost 
angrily at Montague, but the latter’s face with 
its kindly yet stern expression stopped him. 

“Too steep for my little straight,” murmured 
Blaine, and he tossed in a small straight flush, 
face downward. 

Carter and Jackson looked at each other queer- 
ly. Something was awry. The bystanders shifted 
their feet and leaned forward. 

“I’ll call, too,” said Montague. “No use 
bucking my own side of the fence. Deal, Mr. — 
Jackson.” 

“How many cards?” crisped Jackson, his eyes 
glittering at the wordless insinuation of the 
rancher. 

“These’ll do,” smiled Montague gently. 

The dealer looked at Harrison. 

“So’ll these,” grunted the laconic foreman. 

“One card,” demanded Tilby studiedly. He 
had regained the grip on himself. 

“ Blaine’s out. Up to you, Bill,” said Harri¬ 
son briefly. 

“There is the makings of such a nice fat little 



38 


The Round-Up 


pot on the table that I can’t resist the temptation 
of betting a thousand,” laughed the rancher as he 
counted out his chips. 

“Aw, you go to hell,” grinned Harrison good- 
naturedly and he threw in his hand. 

Carter relaxed contentedly. The matter of 
Harrison’s hand was cleared up. He settled 
deeper in his chair and half turned toward the 
big man at his right. Jackson began casually 
gathering up the discards and adding them to 
the remainder of the deck he held. The eyes of 
all others turned to the last player, Tilby. 

Tilby was by birth a Kentuckian. Now he 
eyed his opponent softly, his voice carrying a 
very slight drawl. 

“ You must have an awfully good hand or an 
awfully good bluff,” he said slowly. “To back 
it the way you are doing, is to break up the game. 
I’m going to raise you a thousand dollars.” 

There was a tense moment in the room. Poker 
history was again being made. An old ex-gambler 
and an active gambler with ill-feeling between 
them, playing the big hand of a poker game. 

Montague looked thoughtful for an instant.’ 
“This has developed into something big,” he 
mused. “There’s no use taking all night to bring 
matters to a head. I’ll just make it worth your 
while to call me right now. I’ll see your raise, 
Mr. Tilby, and I raise you five thousand.” 

The rancher was forced to reach toward his 
pocket to add bills to his chips to make his bet. 



Gamblers' Prerogative 


39 


“Never mind, Bill,” drawled Harrison, shov¬ 
ing his pile of chips over to the big man. “You 
done busted up this game, you two fellows. You 
just as well use my chips an’ cash ’em in with 
yourn, Bill — if yuh win.” 

This simple action cleared Harrison’s interest 
in the game and allowed him to devote his entire 
attention to watching the wolves of the pack — 
of cards. He gave Carter more than passing 
interest. 

Tilby cleared his throat. He shot a furtive 
glance toward Jackson. The Chicago man’s face 
was expressionless, his eyes like granite in the 
North Sea. Tilby looked at the frozen smile 
on Montague’s face. He almost shuddered. He 
was caught in an unenviable position. 

“Here is your five thousand,” he husked. 
“And I’ll raise you — I’ll raise you — all I have 
here in the bank—-ten thousand, three hundred 
dollars.” 

For the first time Montague seemed to hesitate. 
He passed his hand worriedly across his brow. 
He looked at his watch. It was after midnight. 
He studied Tilby for a moment. He counted 
his roll. Jackson smiled knowingly down at his 
fingernails. 

“Need any, Dad?” said young Montague 
calmly. “ I tapped the wheel for several hun¬ 
dred.” 

Montague flashed his son a quick smile and 
shook his head. He drummed on the table with 



40 


The Round-Up 


his fingers, Carter and Jackson following every 
motion of his hands like synchronized snakes. 
At length the ranchman lifted his head. 

“Attendant! ” he called. “Bring me an en¬ 
velope.” 

Quickly the bit of stationery was brought. 
Calmly Montague picked up his hand, in plain 
sight of the men at the table, and sealed it in 
the envelope. Placing the few small chips left 
over from his last bet upon the square of white 
he spoke again. 

“ Bring me a ham sandwich and a small 
whiskey,” he said. 

There was a shifting of feet about the table, 
but no one moved from his position for fear of 
losing it. There was no telling how long it would 
be before the play was resumed. Jack Montague 
stared hard at the table and at the players. He 
folded his arms and stood motionless. 

There was no comment at Montague’s odd 
action beyond a knowing glance from one old 
gambler to another. In a poker game it was 
a gambler’s prerogative to do strange things right 
in the midst of a big hand. Men had been known 
to place their hands under their chips and to 
arise and leave the table, leave even the building 
for an hour or more, the other players waiting 
patiently and honorably for the absent man’s re¬ 
turn. 

Thus, there was no comment, but Montague 
knew that, under the existing circumstances, he 



Gamblers* Prerogative 


41 


did not dare leave the table. The waiting gam¬ 
blers would have seized him at once and searched 
for that damnable sixth card they knew to be 
on his person. So the rancher smiled that fixed 
smile that troubled Tilby and coolly awaited his 
order. 

The waiter placed a tiny tray before him with 
the sandwich and a small tumbler of liquor upon 
it. Quietly, Montague picked up the sandwich 
and began eating it casually. He munched the 
food meditatively, frowning, then smiling, then 
appearing uncertain. He studied the tensely wait¬ 
ing Tilby thoughtfully. He knew the man was 
well-nigh frantic under the strain. He pretended 
to be following a deep train of thought as he 
chewed. Suddenly he seemed to reach a decision 
and his brow relaxed. 

Carelessly he leaned over the interested Blaine 
and dropped the unconsumed half of the sand¬ 
wich into the cuspidor next to Jackson. Tossing 
the whiskey down his throat with a graceful tilt 
and a neat snap, he set down the glass and counted 
out ten thousand, three hundred dollars. He 
shoved the greenbacks to the center of the table 
and picked up the envelope containing his hand. 

“ You’re bluffing, Tilby,” he announced quietly. 
“If you had any more money in the bank, I’d 
raise. As it is, I call. What have you got?” 

Wordlessly — he was beyond speech, Tilby 
spread out four sixes and a jack. He eyed the 
rancher greedily. 



42 


The Round-Up 


“Uh huh,” nodded Montague thoughtfully. 
“You did have a pretty good hand after all. 
That shows how hard it is to figure a good gam¬ 
bler. Nevertheless, your hand doesn’t quite top 
this one.” 

He tore open the end of the envelope, drew 
forth the five cards within and spread them out 
on the table, fanwise. It was h : s royal flush in 
spades. 

There were murmurs of surprised delight from 
the watching men, murmurs of incredulity, for 
a royal flush comes but once or twice in a life¬ 
time, as Montague started to rake in the pile of 
wealth before him. 

“Just a minute,” came Jackson’s hard voice. 
“There are only forty-one cards here. With 
Montague’s five and your five, Tilby, that makes 
only fifty one. There is one card short — and 
we started with a full deck.” 

“What card is missing?” asked Montague in¬ 
curiously as he began sorting his chips. “ Per¬ 
haps it is under your chair.” 

Jackson flushed and stared hard at the rancher 
to read any possible insult, but Montague con¬ 
tinued to count his chips unconcernedly, not 
troubling to look up. The gambler ran rapidly 
through the deck. 

“The seven of diamonds is missing,” he an¬ 
nounced, and kicked the immobile Tilby viciously 
under the table. 

The Kentuckian rose unsteadily to his feet. 



Gamblers’ Prerogative 


43 


Some inner courage or brazenness came to his aid 
and he stiffened, pointing his finger accusingly at 
the DZX owner. 

“ I accuse Bill Montague of cheating,” said he* 
“ He’s got that missing card on him.” 

It really did take courage of a kind for Tilby 
to make that accusation. There were no ap¬ 
parent grounds for the charge save his cherished 
grudge and he took his life in his hands when 
he made such a claim. 

Jack Montague uttered a deep growl and flung 
himself sideways at the accusing gambler’s throat. 
Tilby snarled at the shock of contact and at¬ 
tempted to draw a weapon. 

“ Steady, son, steady,” came Montague’s calm 
voice, silencing the growing uproar. “ Turn him 
loose. Upon what do you base your accusation, 
Albert Tilby?” 

“ I accuse you of palming cards all evening,” 
said Tilby evenly. He had recovered himself. 
“ Your phenomenal luck has been too good. You 
haven’t lost a single pot you have played. I 
have been suspecting you all evening. Now I 
accuse you of having that missing seven of dia¬ 
monds in your possession.” 

“ Prove it, you crooks,” cried Harrison angrily, 
pushing back his chair into the crowd behind him 
and springing to his feet. “And you,” he looked 
deep into Carter’s tricky eyes as he bent close, 
“if you attempt to place anything in Bill Mon¬ 
tague’s pocket or on him, yuh’ll wake up for 



44 


The Round-Up 


breakfast in hell.” 

“Gentlemen, this is deplorable,” said Jackson 
smoothly. “ If this be true, this man should 
receive the gun brand. If not, Mr. Tilby owes 
an apology.” 

“ Search him,” snarled Tilby. 

“Now that is a splendid suggestion,” mur¬ 
mured Montague. 

“ Dad! ” said Jack Montague’s horrified voice. 
“Are you going to stand for that?” 

“Why not? He made a direct accusation. 
When this is done, I have the same privilege of 
demanding a search of the entire party. I am 
firmly convinced that there are three crooks in 
this game.” 

Tilby paled a trifle. Jackson and Carter smiled 
derisively. Blaine looked quite perplexed. 

“That’s a good front he puts up,” sneered 
Carter. “ Hurry up and search him.” 

Obligingly Montague arose and held out his 
arms. 

“ Search him,” commanded Jackson crisply. 
“Anyone will do, except his own bunch. Search 
him, Blaine. You have been losing money in 
this game.” 

Blaine looked uncertainly at the rancher. He 
couldn’t quite assimilate the crux of the situa¬ 
tion, but he didn’t believe Montague was guilty 
of anything. But, as the rancher smiled so good- 
naturedly at the doubtful ones, he arose and be¬ 
gan to go perfunctorily through the DZX man’s 



Gamblers’ Prerogative 


45 


pockets, murmuring words of apologies. 

Incentive, initiative was all that had been lack¬ 
ing. Others joined quickly in the search and the 
rancher was quickly turned inside out. Nothing 
came to light. Jackson arose and joined in the 
search. Montague’s boots, hat, underclothing, all 
his wearing apparel was fruitlessly examined. 
His chair, his side of the table, the floor about 
him were carefully gone over without avail. 

At last the searchers desisted. Jackson drew 
back with eyes that glittered. His lips parted in 
a baffled snarl and he studied the rancher’s set 
face strangely. 

Calmly shoving his chips across the table and 
placing the pile of greenbacks back into his pocket, 
Montague began rearranging his clothes. 

“ Cash ’em,” he stated to the white-lipped 
Tilby. 

Tremblingly the gambler counted the chips and 
redeemed them. 

Montague rammed the currency down into his 
pockets and touched the humiliated Blaine on the 
shoulder. 

“I wish to announce,” he said quietly, “that 
Tilby, Carter and Jackson are crooked gamblers 
of the first water. They know how I know. 
Tilby, this is the second time you have crossed 
my path in a shady deal. Don’t let there be a 
third. Mr. Blaine, did I understand that you are 
looking for some land? Come on downstairs 
with us.” 



46 


The Round-Up 


Jackson stood bolt upright at Montague’s 
words. His hand dropped to his side. 

“Don’t do it,” suggested Harrison softly. 
“Yuh’re peepin’ over th’ Devil’s back fence right 
now.” 

“Jack and Jim,” said Montague. “Let’s go,” 
and the crowd parted before them. 

The house gamblers gathered around the table 
in excited conversation as the last of the patrons 
made off for the night. The three plotters eyed 
each other doubtfully. Doubt of each other was 
the inevitable next step. Had each of them played 
fair with the others? 

“This is a fine mess,” snarled Tilby. “You 
broke us and nearly cost me my life with your 
great plan.” 

“Shut up,” snapped Jackson tersely. “I’m 
trying to think.” 

“I can’t understand how he did it,” said Carter 
savagely. “ I watched him like a hawk. Are 
you sure you dealt him that sixth card, Jackson?” 

“Don’t be a fool,” returned Jackson uglily. 
“The card is missing, isn’t it?” 

“ You fools,” sneered Tilby. “ Don’t you know 
the hand is quicker than the eye? I told you 
that you hadn’t seen Montague work, Jackson.” 

“The hand is not so much quicker than the 
eye when the eye knows the motion to be made,” 
said Jackson very quietly. “ Perhaps I lost some¬ 
thing in this deal, too. My standing is ruined 



Gamblers' Prerogative 


47 


in this man’s town.” 

“ Here, here,” soothed Carter as he leaned over 
to toss his cigar into the cuspidor. “ Don’t you 
two quarrel over this. I-” 

He broke off and stared down into the spit¬ 
toon. Jackson and Tilby watched him intently 
as he slowly reached down and gingerly brought 
up a soiled half of a ham sandwich. Very slowly 
he opened it before their eyes. In the middle of 
the sandwich lay half of the missing seven of 
diamonds, the ragged edges showing the marks 
of strong teeth. 

“ I will be completely damned,” breathed one 
of the wheelmen. 

“I told you that you hadn’t seen him work,” 
canted Tilby bitterly. “ I-” 

Abruptly he halted at the expression which 
crossed Jackson’s face. The man’s handsome 
features twisted in horrible rage. 

“Of course,” he snarled. “Of course, that’s 
the answer. Bonehead that I am, I didn’t see it. 
I’ll get Bill Montague for that and when I do, 
he’ll remember this night.” 





CHAPTER IV 

ON THE PROPER PREPARATION OF A COBBLER 

S PRING had merged into early summer and 
the country surrounding Lebanon lay like a 
gem of verdure in the heart of the encircling 
mountains. For the county of Richelieu could 
be roughly designated as that wide fertile valley 
lying within the almost perfect circle of hills, 
mountains that were to play havoc with the charts 
of the weather bureaus in the years to come, that 
so broke up and deflected the air currents as to 
render weather forecasting as uncertain as proph¬ 
ecy. The valley itself was probably sixty to 
seventy miles in diameter, Lebanon lying toward 
the northern edge close to the eastern rim. 

The day following that disastrous poker game 
in the fall, Montague had taken Blaine, the Mis- 
sissippian, to a spot just five miles south of Leb¬ 
anon where a German agriculturist had been 
experimenting for three years with a fruit farm. 
The DZX holdings were about ten miles south 
of the town and the lowlands south and west 
were dotted with other ranches. 

The fruit farm of Fritz Blumkin had been 
successful and the fruit, peaches, cherries, and 
plums, were entering on a healthy fourth year. 
But the Teuton himself had never been able to 
43 


On the Proper Preparation of a Cobbler 49 


attain popularity. His disposition had been com¬ 
pletely soured by marital troubles before he had 
even left his native country. He was crabbed 
and cross. He was lame in one leg, which he 
dragged slightly as he walked, a memento of 
the coal mines of Europe. 

In a range country where farm land fences 
and farms were not popular Fritz made himself 
still more unpopular by the stand that he took. 
He was impatient of browsing cattle and boister¬ 
ous punchers. He possessed a shotgun and a 
fowling piece and more than one peach fancier 
found out that he could use them, several unfor¬ 
tunate poachers having to eat off of the mantel 
and ride on a pillow for a number of days. 

Fritz Blumkin was square of face and fero¬ 
ciously blue of eye. His hair was white and he 
was tanned to the color of tough leather. He 
was himself approximately that tough, one of his 
favorite pastimes being to pick his teeth vigor¬ 
ously with a heavy pocket-knife, swearing emphat¬ 
ically in his mixture of mother tongue and broken 
English all the while. But the Teuton was no 
fool. He realized that he was decidedly unpopu¬ 
lar and when the DZX ranchman, who came 
nearer understanding the German eccentric than 
did anyone else, brou^it a buyer in the person 
of Henry Blaine, Fritz made the wisest move of 
his life. He sold out to the Mississippian and 
moved back to the uphills of Arkansas and his 
grape growing. 



50 


The Round-Up 


Now, with pickers in the peach orchard, with 
the early crop all but ready for shipping, Henry 
Blaine looked upon his life and works and found 
them good. He began to see in the afternoon 
of his life the agricultural garden he had dreamed 
of in his unsuccessful youth. Blaine was a splen¬ 
did farmer. He was a hard worker and he had 
farmed in more than one kind of land. Five 
seasons in the rich black lands of the Mississippi 
Delta where he had seen his flourishing crops 
go under the raging crest of flood waters four 
seasons had driven him back to the red hills of 
northern Mississippi, inured to bitter disappoint¬ 
ment and barren hardship. 

Here, in the paradise of Richelieu County, he 
had found the happy medium. The land was 
not quite as rich as the lands in the river bot¬ 
toms but it was far superior to the red hills 
and the valley was well protected. The climate 
was fairly temperate and the two rivers, the 
Canadian and the Arkansas, crossing the upper 
end of the valley assisted the rainfall in irrigat¬ 
ing the soil. The wildness of the frontier was 
gradually giving way before the inexorable en¬ 
croachment of civilization. 

Because Henry Blaine was a man in whom the 
code of honor was just and strict and because 
he had a beautiful daughter where beautiful 
women were rare, he was welcomed by the ranch¬ 
ers to the county and he proceeded to make a 
success where the disgruntled German had failed. 



On the Proper Preparation of a Cobbler 51 


Possessing the only farm in a cattle country, he 
realized that his fences were unpleasant sights 
to the riders of the open range and he set out 
to overcome the natural prejudice against him. 

It was not hard. He had the knack of making 
friends. He was generous. He set a good table 
and he liked company. He knew how to grow 
fancy vegetables and his daughter knew how to 
cook them. When a pretty woman is a good 
cook, she becomes irresistible to the cowpuncher. 

Before the peach crop ripened Patty had made 
a complete conquest of the countryside. Cowboy 
serenades, private rodeos for her laughing ap¬ 
proval, queer presents of wabbly-legged calves, 
snake belts and hat bands, rope and hair lariats, 
beaded sombreros and gauntlets, broken hearts 
and Indian souvenirs all went to litter up the 
farm of the Blaines. 

Patty added to her good horsemanship expert 
work with a rifle and small calibered revolver. 
She learned to throw a lariat, to rope a yearling, 
to brand, although she did not exactly approve 
of this last operation, and to laugh with, in place 
of at, the punchers who made such ardent love. 

There was but one tinge of bitterness or rather 
of resentfulness in the cup of the girl’s happiness. 
The handsome cavalier who had come into her 
life out of the rain on the first night of her com¬ 
ing to Lebanon, the man to whose father her 
father owed so much, signally failed to bend his 
knees and become one of her conquests. With 



52 


The Round-Up 


her, and he was at the Blaine farm frequently 
as all the DZX men had formed the habit of 
stopping on their way to or from town, he was 
ever friendly and companionable. She learned 
that he was a college man, an athlete and a per¬ 
fectly normal young man who was not in the 
least conceited about himself. 

But he refused to fall in love with Patty Blaine. 
When he failed to be overwhelmed by her charms, 
Patty vowed in the privacy of her heart to make 
him fall in love with her. Being thoroughly 
human and a young woman in whose veins the 
wine of life coursed a swift, joyous song, she loved 
the adoration of the cattlemen about her. And 
because it is a human proverb that anything hard 
to obtain is much the sweeter thereby, she found 
that it was Jack Montague’s adoration Which she 
cherished more than anything else in the world. 

She had entered into the game lightly, confident 
of bringing him to his knees and happily dream¬ 
ing over the ensuing scene where he would kneel 
before her, perhaps on the north bluff overlook¬ 
ing Lebanon, and kiss the hem of her riding skirt, 
pleading for just a little love. She could see 
herself laugh lightly at his earnestness and chain 
him to her in humble chains of steel. He was 
such a nice fellow and so handsome that she 
might condescend to throw him a scrap of love. 

But there were more types of boomerangs than 
the Australian model. Due to some treacherous 
reaction Patty suddenly found herself deeply in 



On the Proper Preparation of a Cobbler 53 


love with the man she sought to bring to heel. 
This discovery shocked her, frightened her, and 
then made her angry at herself for having fallen 
into her own trap. She learned to tremble at 
his nearness and yearn for the fierce pressure of 
his strong young arms about her and she hated 
herself for this weakness. And the perverse devil 
that urged her made her swear to make Jack 
Montague, the innocent cause of her confusion, 
suffer all the more because of her heartache. 

Blaine and the elder Montague saw through 
the game she was playing, although they were 
abysmally ignorant of the turmoil in her heart, 
and they laughed with each other and speculated 
on the length of time it would take to reduce 
Jack’s ramparts and leave him helpless before 
the determined onslaught of a determined young 
woman. 

Patty Blaine did not realize the danger of the 
game she was playing. Jack Montague was like 
a wondrous piece of mechanism into which the 
breath of vitalizing life was yet to be blown. 
He was unawakened, his inner cosmos slumbered. 
Women had meant but little in his life. His 
mother had died in his infancy and he had grown 
to manhood with the kindly but masculine super¬ 
vision of his bereaved father and the faithful 
foreman. 

No woman had ever stirred him profoundly. 
He had gone through his college years unscathed 
and untouched. He was satisfied with the range 



54 


The Round-Up 


country, the men about him, and the dumb brutes 
that he loved. 

Unknown to him, he had inherited from his 
mother great capacity for feeling and play of 
emotion. He was a strong, keen rapier within 
a casing which resembled a trim, stout, but prosaic 
cudgel — matter-of-fact, straight driving and re¬ 
sourceful like his father. The fact that he was 
his father’s son and was likely to some day back 
all of this hardwood heritage with a sudden re¬ 
serve of inner force of a more delicate yet none 
the less deadly nature, made him a quantity to 
be reckoned with impossible of measurement. 
William Montague, wise man that he was, sus¬ 
pected the unplumbed depths of his son’s nature 
and he watched over the young man like a hawk. 

That the boy had potentialities for either the 
heights or the depths, he knew. That he would 
some day awaken and be a nervous driving force 
that would either make or mar him, the father 
was certain. And he feared, overlooking the 
fact that Jack had inherited his own resolute 
firmness as well as the high temperament of the 
mother. 

Upon this forenoon in early July the young 
man in question sat on the step in the kitchen 
doorway of the Blaine farmhouse, lazily watch¬ 
ing the young woman, who sought his scalp, as 
she bustled about the warm kitchen. His feet 
were stretched straight out before him, one rowel 
making worm-like marks in the edge of the step, 



On the Proper Preparation of a Cobbler 55 


his back against the jamb of the door. 

He studied her lovely profile as she vigor¬ 
ously sifted flour into a great mixing bowl. A 
truant wisp of hair trailed across her eyes and 
she impatiently brushed it back with her fore¬ 
arm, getting a smudge of flour on one dimpled 
cheek. The gingham apron she wore was of 
simple lines and trimmed with tiny red rickrack 
that gave it a neat appearance. It became her 
j slender young figure prettily. Her ankles were 
small without being too delicate or thin and her 
feet were of a nice size, not for a tiny dancing 
1 pump, but to serviceably support the weight of 
' a woman of her build. Jack had seen those neat 
: little feet in riding boots more than once and he 
| secretly admired them. 

“ Here I sit,” he drawled, “ when I should 
have ridden on to town with Jim. ’Tis funny 
; how woman distracts man’s mind, isn’t it?” 

“ Say on, you hoary-headed philosopher,” she 
laughed. “ I don’t know of a thing that is keep¬ 
ing you here. If you had to prepare dinner for 
twenty-five or thirty fruit pickers you wouldn’t be 
so philosophic.” 

“ Perhaps not. It’s easier to contemplate 
things in the abstract and from the sidelines. It 
gives one an unbiased viewpoint, too. May I ask 
what you are making?” 

“This will be a peach cobbler when it is done,” 
she answered as she added a number of liberal 
spoonfuls of lard for shortening the crust. 



56 


The Round-Up 


She began to knead the flour and shortening 
together briskly, he lazily watching her slim capa¬ 
ble hands as they flashed in and out of the mix¬ 
ing bowl. He raised his eyes suddenly and caught 
her looking at him. She smiled easily, raised 
one hand to wipe her forehead and dropped her 
gaze to the work before her. In dissembling, 
woman has nothing to learn from man. 

“ Put plenty of salt in,” he suggested. “There 
is nothing like salt for a seasoner.” 

“What do you know about cooking?” she 
demanded. 

“ More than you think I do,” he retorted. 
“Where are your peaches?” 

“ Stewing in that big kettle on the stove,” re¬ 
turned Patty, motioning with her head, and pick¬ 
ing up a bucket of buttermilk, preparatory to pour¬ 
ing it into the mixing bowl. 

“Wait!” commanded Jack authoritatively. 
“Did you add soda to that buttermilk?” 

“I certainly did,” she rejoined smartly. “Will 
you kindly cease shouting at me?” 

He watched her as she stirred vigorously. 

“You are a decidedly pretty girl, Patty,” he 
said earnestly. “ It is no wonder the DZX boys 
rave about you and the punchers from all the other 
ranches are on the verge of eating your father 
into bankruptcy. I’ll venture that ninety percent 
of your peach pickers are truant cowpunchers.” 

Her heart leaped at his first words and then 
dropped back to subnormal at his cool detached 




On the Proper Preparation of a Cobbler 57 


manner of speaking. 

“You should feed the poor starved dears at 
home then,” she retorted coolly. “ I guess I ought 
to thank you, however. I believe that is the first 
compliment you have ever paid me.” 

“Your life is not made up of compliments 
surely, despite the silly antics of the punchers 
hereabouts,” he drawled as he snapped his ciga¬ 
rette butt out into the back yard and watched the 
hens make a concerted mass movement toward 
the expected tidbit. 

“Of course not,” she replied indignantly, giv¬ 
ing the unsuspecting dough a vicious twist as she 
lifted it out onto the rolling board. 

“ In that case a lack of compliments from me 
has not stunted your growth,” he shrugged care¬ 
lessly. 

She bit her lip angrily. He had tripped her 
neatly and it vexed her. She tossed her head and 
her round young arms, lovely in their extremely 
short sleeves, bore crushingly down on the groan¬ 
ing rolling pin. 

Jack Montague laughed gently and arose with 
a jingle of spurs. He stepped swiftly across the 
floor and placed his lean muscular fingers on her 
bare arms, standing so close behind her that she 
could feel her skirt touching the front of his 
boots. 

“You’re a dear little girl,” he said softly, giv¬ 
ing her a gentle squeeze. “And I am an ornery, 
mean cowboy.” 



58 


The Round-Up 


Her heart pounded madly at his touch and she 
swayed toward him ever so slightly. Then, as 
she realized that it was but a brotherly attitude 
he was assuming, almost an impersonal attitude, 
it maddened her beyond control. 

“Take your hands away,” she cried sharply. 

In startled surprise he dropped his hands and 
stepped back. 

“Who gave you the liberty of placing your 
hands on me?” she demanded, facing him furi¬ 
ously and stamping her foot. “ How dare you be 
so presumptuous? I — I hate you.” 

“Why — why, Patty,” he stammered. “What 
in the world is the matter? I was just playing. 
I wouldn’t hurt your feelings for-” 

She interrupted him with a scornful gesture 
that unmistakably meant ignominious dismissal. 
He stared at her aghast. Then a slow color 
swept across his face and his smiling eyes grew 
hard and bright. He straightened imperceptibly 
and bowed stiffly, formally. 

Instantly she realized that she had deeply 
wounded the pride and feeling of this man. Realiz¬ 
ing how trivial was the pretext for her anger and 
that Jack Montague had never professed any 
emotion for her, therefore being held to her and 
her caprices by no thread of allegiance, she knew 
that he might never take the trouble to return. 

She melted toward him at once. 

“Forgive me, Jack,” she said sweetly, stepping 
close to him. “ I’m an old crosspatch today. It 




On the Proper Preparation of a Cobbler 59 


is so hot and cooking does make one cross.” 

She looked so lovely and fragrant as she stood 
before him, her mass of hair furnishing a veritable 
glow in the kitchen, that he wondered why it was 
he had never kissed her. He considered this 
astounding fact. From this thought it was just 
a step to the speculation whether or not he would 
miss her were she to leave Lebanon. He looked 
down at her so oddly that she trembled in fear of 
having offended him too deeply. 

“ You are going to stay for dinner, aren’t you? ” 
she murmured contritely. “It will be ready to 
go onto the table as soon as the cobbler is done.” 

The man relaxed. And because he knew noth¬ 
ing of women he believed exactly what she said, 
not knowing that behind that angelic little smile 
was the intense desire to kiss his smiling lips and 
the converse impish instinct to bite his ear and 
pull his wavy hair. 

“There are ten thousand reasons why I should 
follow Jim on to town but, do you know, I can’t 
think of a one of them right now,” he grinned. 
“What are you figuring on cooking that cobbler 
in? Nothing short of a dish pan will hold enough 
for that wild outfit in the orchard.” 

“That’s what I am going to use, smarty,” she 
retorted. “You may get out that big blue one 
in the pantry for me. My hands are still full of 
dough and flour.” 

He quickly complied, careful now as he passed 
her not to touch her. She inwardly winced but 




6 o 


The Round-Up 


knew that she alone was to blame for this. 

“I like peach cobbler,” grinned Jack boyishly, 
as he placed the dishpan on the table beside the 
rolled dough. “ Put lots of dumpling dough in 
the middle with the peaches and make it sweet. 
I like insides to my pie. Shall I stir the peaches ? ” 

“You are not particular, are you?” said she, 
cutting the dough into strips and patterns prepara¬ 
tory to laying it in the pan. “Turn out the fire 
under that stew kettle, please.” 

He obeyed and came back and stood respect¬ 
fully at her side. 

“Shall I grease the pan?” he asked next. 

“ I thought you knew how to cook,” she said 
scathingly. 

“ I do, but I don’t know everything about mak¬ 
ing peach cobbler. Do you or don’t you grease 
the pan?” 

“You do not,” she responded. “You may see 
how hot the oven is.” 

He stuck a superficial hand carelessly into the 
oven and withdrew it, closing the oven door. 

“ It’s hot,” he announced idiotically. 

“How bright he is,” she shrugged irritably. 
“ How hot is it?” 

“Too hot to broil a chicken or a steak,” he 
retorted. 

“ In that case, it is probably too hot to cook a 
cobbler,” she said, stepping swiftly to the stove 
and making a few deft adjustments. “I wish we 
had a gas range,” she sighed. 



On the Proper Preparation of a Cobbler 61 


“I am not familiar with your oven,” Jack de¬ 
fended himself calmly. “ Ovens differ in tempera¬ 
ment, you must remember.” 

“Where did you learn that?” she demanded 
startledly. 

“ From our Chinese cook, Sing Li.” 

“Oh!” she said oddly, glad that he had not 
learned even that little domestic secret from a 
woman. “ Bring the kettle of peaches over here,” 
she commanded, crossing back to the table. 

Obediently he responded. Under her super¬ 
vision he began pouring the fragrant mass into 
the cobbler pan, halting every moment so she 
could place a layer of the dumpling dough in the 
pan. When the last of the peaches had been 
emptied into the cobbler she began placing fanci¬ 
fully cut strips of pastry on the top of the steam¬ 
ing dish. 

“Are you sure there is enough juice in it?” 
Jack asked anxiously. “ Remember, it cooks 
pretty dry with all that dough.” 

She turned and faced him squarely, her hands 
at her hips, her elbows akimbo with righteous 
exasperation. 

“Young man, if you could work as well as 
you can advise, you would be a wonder,” she said 
severely, making a little saucy moue of impatience. 

She made such a tempting morsel that he sud¬ 
denly decided he was a fool for having never 
kissed her. Swept on by a sudden urge almost 
beyond his control he proceeded to manfully make 



62 


The Round-Up 


amends for the oversight. 

He felt her lips quiver as she drew a surprised 
and startled breath — for his suddenness had 
startled her—and then he experienced a queer 
thrill as her tender mouth responded to his kiss. 
When he drew back, striving to analyze his own 
emotions, Patty’s eyes were misty with the secret 
mysteries of womanhood. 

They looked for a long time into each other’s 
eyes, wonder, surprise, tenderness, amazement 
and finally recognition unfolding before the gaze 
of each. A hidden power stirred within Jack’s 
slumbering soul and startled him by its intensity. 
He frightened himself. He wondered w T hat it 
meant. He wondered if he really loved this 
woman. 

With her surrender Patty realized that her con¬ 
quest was proving a mutual proposition. Gone 
was her dream of a proud, vain moment in which 
Jack Montague trembled while he waited to see 
whether or not she accepted his love. She felt 
like a foolish girl who has just realized what a 
wonderful thing she was trifling with and she was 
glad it happened like it happened. 

“ Er — I don’t care what you put in the cobbler, 
Patty,” he said inanely. 

“Neither do I,” she laughed tremulously. 



CHAPTER V 

JACKSON SCORES 


Y OUNG Montague rode back to the DZX in 
the late afternoon. He was still introspec- 
tively studying. Love had not swept him off of 
his feet in one engulfing emotion. The sober 
habit of thinking ahead, the sturdy resourceful¬ 
ness that was a priceless heritage from his father, 
came to his aid now. He wanted to think, to 
analyze his inner disturbance and properly tabu¬ 
late his emotions. The dawning miracle of love 
was a wondrous thing that lifted him completely 
out of himself. He had never felt so vitally alive 
before. 

By the time he reached the ranch dusk was 
coming on apace and there was a wild melee about 
the corrals where twenty-eight ravenous punchers 
awaited the clamor of Sing Li’s supper bell. The 
signal sounded and there was a mad rush for the 
chuck-house as Jack rode up to the corrals. He 
roused himself and grinned at the shouting punch¬ 
ers. They were a fine lot of boys — couldn’t be 
better. 

When the first force of the riot spent itself and 
the scene in the chuck-house more nearly resembled 
a supper than a panic, a slim, broad-shouldered, 
63 


64 


The Round-Up 


brown-eyed puncher burst out in vociferous argu¬ 
ment with the man at his side. 

“Yeah, it’s uh bargain. ’Smatter with yuh? 
I’ll give Mister Owens twenty dollars for it an’ 
then I’ll paint that there rig uh brilliant hue, 
hitch th’ best DZX hoss to it, an’ proceed to corral 
all th’ dates with th’ best lookin’ gals ’round 
Lebanon. I’ll make all th’ rest uh yuh pore 
punchers look like uh row uh picked crows. 
I’ll-” 

“Ain’tcha coverin’ a little too much territory, 
Mister?” drawled a soft voice from the door, and 
Jack Montague strode forward toward the vacant 
chair at the lower end of the table, opposite his 
father. 

Frank Henson eyed the newcomer belligerently, 
fork poised in mid-air. Then, as young Montague 
seated himself and began calmly loading his plate, 
he gulped quickly. 

“Nope,” he denied composedly. “I ain’t. I 
am sure th’ hot stuff an’ I’m uh peach specialist.” 

“Huh? Nonk! Nonk! Nonk! Huh uh, 
cowboy. Yuh sure ain’t,” contradicted Jack 
calmly, slipping into the easy dialect of the punch¬ 
ers. “ In th’ first place, me an’ Mister Blaine are 
th’ only peach specialists they is. Second, yore 
plans is bound to go wrong. Yuh ain’t no Greek 
god an’ yuh wouldn’t be at home behind uh hoss. 
Yuh’d keep thinkin’ he’d throwed yuh an’ be tryin’ 
to stand up constantly. Third, when yuh can buy 
uh bargain from Mister Owens of Lebanon that’ll 




Jackson Scores 


65 


be th’ beginnin’ of th’ millennium.” 

Frank half rose and leaned over the long sup¬ 
per table, glaring indignantly down at his chal¬ 
lenger. 

“ Do I understand yuh to be insinuatin’ that I 
can’t drive uh hoss?” he demanded in profound 
amazement. “ Furthermore an’ notwithstandin’, 
how does yuh know this ain’t uh good buggy? 
Yuh ain’t no judge uh beauty. Where is it? I 
didn’t hear yuh drive up. Where’s Jim. Whatcha 
two treacherous characters gone an’ done now?” 

“ Oh ho! So that was th’ errand yuh wanted 
Jim to do for yuh,” chuckled Jack. “I’m sure I 
can’t enlighten yuh, Mister Henson, as I ain’t been 
to town today.” 

“ He meant yuh wouldn’t know what to do with 
yore feet without no stirrups, prob’bly, Frank,” 
suggested Curly Matthews from across the table. 
“ Uh course he didn’t mean you couldn’t steer yore 
outfit. Any cowboy can steer.” 

Frank ignored the shouts of laughter that arose 
at this sally. He shifted his gaze to the wit and 
eyed him steadily. 

“ Some uh them can bull, too,” he remarked 
acidly. “Not gittin’ too personal but I couldst 
name two bright riders uh th’ open range that all 
yuh boys can find without no specs. An’ I wouldn’t 
talk about nobody’s clumsy feet if I was uh certain 
curly headed blond. I noticed that his hands and 
feet got in his way somethin’ awful when he met 
Patty Blaine last fall.” 



66 


The Round-Up 


“ Mebbeso,” returned Curly heatedly. “ But 
don’t forget, Cicero Socrates Catiline Marcus 
Aurelius, yuh, who can ordinarily converse on any 
subject from botany to — to bad whiskey, an’ with 
th’ ease an’ grace of uh five foot shelf uh dime 
novels, yuh was as dumb as uh deaf mute.” 

The owner of the DZX was forced to smile at 
the argument. He lifted his voice, in order to be 
heard above the uproar, and spoke to his son. 

“You didn’t go on to town with Jim then, son?” 
he inquired. 

“No, sir. I stopped at Blaine’s.” 

“Uh huh,” nodded Frank sagely. “That’s 
where yuh git that stuff ’bout bein’ uh peach spe¬ 
cialist. Anyhow, you ignorant punchers can say 
whatcha please. Jim’s gonna close th’ deal for 
that buggy today. I betcha he drives my rig home 
tonight.” 

The rancher glanced at his watch. 

“Jim ought to be in by now,” he murmured. 
“ Perhaps he stopped at Blaine’s for supper.” 

“ If he did, mebbe he’ll bring home uh load 
uh peaches in Frank’s buggy,” suggested Curly 
hopefully. “Not th’ kind uh peaches Frank an’ 
Jack was arguin’ ’bout neither,” he added hastily. 

“ Blaine seems to be doing nicely,” said the 
elder Montague. “ Jack, what does he expect to 
do with his peaches? Will the crop put him on 
his feet?” 

“There were fifty acres of peach trees on the 
place in their fourth year,” replied Jack. “He 



Jackson Scores 


67 


was telling me today that they are running 
good — about two hundred bushels to the acre. 
Ten thousand bushels at one fifty per bush make 
fifteen thousand dollars.” 

“That ought to place him in easy circumstances 
for next year,” nodded Montague. “When Jim 
comes——” 

He paused and listened. An instant hush fell 
over the more or less noisy cowpunchers. The 
faint but distinct clatter of flying hoofs came to 
their ears, sounding in the stillness like the eerie 
galloping of a fairy horse upon a tiny drum. 
Louder thundered the pounding hoofs as the rider 
drew nearer. 

“ From town — or Blaine’s,” said Curly. “ Must 
be Jim.” 

“That’s a strange horse,” vetoed Montague. 

“An’ Jim don’t never ride thataway,” added 
Frank. 

“Whoever it is, he’s in a sure enough hurry. 
Let’s go out to the corrals to meet him,” suggested 
Jack. 

There was the rough scraping of benches and 
chairs and they trooped down to the fenced en¬ 
closures just as the rider loomed up through the 
dusk and flung himself from his sweating, heaving 
mount. 

“Where’s Montague?” he demanded. 

“Here,” said the rancher quietly. “What’s 
wrong, Winters?” 

“Jim got in uh fracus with Jackson th’ gam- 




68 


The Round-Up 


bier,” announced the newcomer tersely. “They’re 
bringin’ him home in uh wagon. I rode ahead 
so’s to tell yuh to fix up for him.” 

“Do you mean-?” began the ranchman. 

“No, huh uh,” said Winters quickly. “They 
jes’ had uh li’l argument an’ shootin’ scrape an’ 
Jim was plugged in th’ shoulder. Doctor Sawyer 
fixed him up but he’ll hafta lay round for uh day 
or so.” 

“ How did it happen? ” the punchers demanded. 

“Waal,” hesitated Winters, “considerin’ as 
how I didn’t see it, I don’t jes’ know. I heard 
it said that Jim didn’t have his gun with him.” 

“Where did the trouble take place?” queried 
Jack, laying his hand gently on the horseman’s 
arm. 

“ In th’ barroom of th’ Texas Hotel,” informed 
Winters. 

“Boys, do you hear?” said Jack in a peculiar 
vibrant voice, all slurring speech burned away. 
“You know who Jackson is — the Chicago 
gambler who tried to trim Dad and Blaine last 
fall. He hates us like poison. He never returned 
to Chicago. I guess he never will, now. Any of 
you want to go to town with me?” 

“Just a minute, son,” came the steady, even 
voice of the father. “ If this is nothing but a 
minor affair, we can do nothing. If it is really 
the first act of a planned revenge, you’d be inviting 
death to ride blundering into town after Jackson 
tonight. All of the crooked element will be with 




Jackson Scores 


69 


him solid. Otherwise he would never have started 
this. Maybe it was just a light affair. Suppose 
we wait and hear Jim’s story before we do any¬ 
thing? One of you boys go tell Sing Li to pre¬ 
pare a bed.” 

The wagon bearing the wounded man arrived 
shortly and the foreman of the DZX ranch was 
tenderly carried into the house and placed in bed. 
The deft hands of Sing Li, Chinese cook and dex¬ 
terous housekeeper for the Montague menage, 
smoothed the pillows and held a tiny glass of 
whiskey to his lips. 

Propped carefully up, Harrison surveyed the 
silent and tense group of punchers who crowded 
into the room to hear his story. He pursed his 
lips and studied them painfully for a moment. 

“Now, boys, don’t get ugly,” he stated finally. 
“ Don’t yuh fret none and don’t get impatient. 
They ain’t no feud, they ain’t no cattle war, they 
ain’t no trouble. They’s jes’ one crazy gambler 
gone loco.” 

“ I should have gone on to town with you this 
morning,” choked Jack. “I shouldn’t have 
stopped at the Blaine farm.” 

“Now, Jack, rope them idees an’ corral them 
feelin’s. Lemme tell how it happened. Yuh see, 
I went on to town when yuh stopped at the’ farm 
an’ I proceeded to tend to th’ ranch business. 
Then I takes th’ afternoon to run ’round on them 
foolish errands yuh misfit cowpunchers was too 
lazy to do yoreselves th’ last time yuh was in — 



70 


The Round-Up 


among which I looked at that ole rig for yuh, 
Frank, an’ I’ll tell a man it’s uh rotten outfit. 
That’s how ‘Horsehead’ Owens accumulated all 
his money — skinnin’ ignorant cowpunchers. 

“Well, some time before I was ready to start 
back I steps in th’ Texas Hotel to look ’round an’ 
to take on uh extra drink. I wasn’t lookin’ for 
no trouble an’ I’d left my gun at Wilkerson’s 
Repair Shop to be tightened uh li’l. This here 
Jackson was at th’ bar conversin’ with that other 
snake, Carter. They nudges one another an’ 
moves kinda close when I orders my throat gargle 
but natchurly I didn’t pay ’em much attention. I 
starts to drink an’ Jackson jostles my elbow an’ 
makes me slop th’ stuff all over my hand. I looks 
him over kinda careful an’ it appears to me he’s 
already carryin’ more’n his share so I passes it up. 

“ But th’ sonuvagun ain’t content with that. He 
looks me right in th’ eye an’ makes uh nasty crack 
about Bill Montague. That riles me an’ I flings 
my glass an’ all in his face. He cussed an’ splut¬ 
tered an’ then we both reaches for our guns. 
Mine ain’t there. That’s all there are to it,” Har¬ 
rison finished laconically. 

“ Do you mean to say that Jackson actually shot 
an unarmed man?” demanded Jack incredulously, 
ominously. 

“Now, Jack, now Jack,” soothed the foreman. 
“Don’tcha go flyin’ off thataway. Everybody 
seen me reach jes’ like he did. He didn’t know 
I’d left my gun anywheres.” 



Jackson Scores 


7 i 


“ So much for that,” said Jack with a thin little 
knife-edged smile. “ I guess we’d better be mosey¬ 
ing along toward town, boys.” 

He turned to go, the punchers making ready 
to follow him in a solid body. The rancher and 
the foreman exchanged glances. 

“ Remember, boys,” said Montague slowly, 
“these are not the wild days of the fifties. You 
will be liable to arrest for murder.” 

“ Murder! ” laughed Jack shortly. “After that 
kind of a raw deal?” 

His father nodded firmly. 

“ But I am to blame,” stated the young man 
bitterly. “ If I hadn’t let Jim go on alone it 
never would have happened. C’mon, boys.” 

“ Wait 1 ” commanded Harrison weakly. 

Jack faced the man on the bed interrogatingly. 

“ Go, if yuh insist on go in’, Jack,” said the 
foreman. “ But promise me one thing, will yuh ? ” 
“What?” 

“ Clean up th’ whole dang town if yuh want 
to but leave Jackson alone. D’yuh hear me? 
Leave Jackson plum alone. He’s mine. I’ll set¬ 
tle with Mr. Jackson when I get limbered up 
again.” 

Jack protested vehemently but the foreman re¬ 
mained firm in his demand. Young Montague 
turned to his father for support. The elder man’s 
eyes were hard and cold as he considered his fore¬ 
man’s story but he slowly shook his head. 

“Jim is right, son. It’s his privilege to settle 



72 


The Round-Up 


with Jackson as he wishes.” 

“Promise me, Jack,” pleaded the wounded 
man, fearing the impulsiveness of the young man. 
“ Promise me yuh won’t mix with Jackson no time 
on no account.” 

“ There is no use going to town at all if I make 
such a promise,” frowned young Montague im¬ 
patiently. 

“ Don’t go, then. That goes for all yuh ungainly 
cowpunchers, d’yuh hear? Yuh wouldn’t cheat a 
pore ole man like me outa uh li’l fun, ’specially 
seein’ I’ve done paid th’ admission price, would 
yuh?” 

“Ole man, hell!” snorted Curly disgustedly. 
“Yuh don’t seem to mind cheatin’ us pore li’l 
boys outa some justifiable excitement.” 

“ I docks yore wages one dollar for disrespect,” 
Harrison grinned weakly. “Are yuh promisin’, 
Jack?” 

“All right,” growled the young man reluctantly. 
“ I promise and I bet I’ll be sorry I did.” 

“All you cow nursemaids go on to bed now,” 
commanded Montague relievedly. “That in¬ 
cludes you, Jack. You’ve got to ride fences to¬ 
morrow and Jim needs rest.” 

After the room had emptied of the restless, 
disappointed and dissatisfied men, Montague drew 
his chair close to the bed. Sing Li folded his arms 
and took his position calmly in the doorway. 

“Well?” demanded Montague. 

“ It was uh frame-up, Bill,” whispered the 



Jackson Scores 


73 


wounded man. “Yuh know who hangs out at 
th’ Texas Hotel as a rule. Jackson has got that 
gang behind him strong. There’s going to be 
trouble. But th’ most surprisin’ thing to me was 
that Jackson an’ Carter wasn’t by themselves at 
th’ bar. I didn’t tell th’ boys ’cause I thought I’d 
wait an’ talk it over with you alone. Owens was 
with them. Think of that! Ain’t things brewin’ 
up in uh sweet li’l mess? An’, Bill, they’d of got 
me too, if my gun hadn’t been missin’. Owens 
didn’t raise his hand. That was the luckiest miss 
I ever had. I’d have been uh regular sieve an’ yuh 
wouldn’t ever knowed who was innocent” 

“Owens?” 

The rancher was distinctly startled. 

“Yep. Owens. Bill, he’s out for us an’ when 
we go to town we better go in uh bunch an’ ride 
herd on ’em.” 

“ I guess the Texas Hotel will have to go,” said 
Montague regretfully. “ If that lawless element 
gets a fresh start, they’ll set us back fifty years. 
All of the desperadoes of Texas, Arkansas, and 
Oklahoma will flock to Lebanon. We’ll have to 
move the Federal Criminal Court at Ft. Smith 
over here. But how did Owens happen to get 
mixed up in this business? That gets me. This 
will put him in bad.” 

“He ain’t th’ most religious man I ever seen,” 
commented the foreman dryly. “ That was pretty 
raw but I kinda guess he figured he was too big 
for me to link him up with that bunch uh short- 



74 


The Round-Up 


horns. I never was so close to th’ happy huntin’ 
grounds in all my life. When we started to draw, 
Jackson shot once an’ I fell. Everybody I could 
see all over th’ lobby had uh gun an’ was coverin’ 
me. I think they was takin’ my heavenly toga 
outa th’ mothballs when somebody yelled — I 
believe it was that other gambler Tilby— ‘Stop, 
yuh fools. This is murder. Can’t yuh see he 
ain’t got no gun?”’ 

The rancher nodded thoughtfully. 

“I guess I’ll ride in and consult with Judge 
Ryan very shortly. We’ll have to break up this 
pleasant little ring before it becomes a syndicate. 
You forget it for the present and try to get some 
sleep, Jim. Is there anything you want?” 

“You slippum ’long, Missee Montague. See 
lilly cowboys shootee claps in flont loom. Sing Li 
allee same watchee ’long side Missee Jim,” an¬ 
nounced the blandly smiling Oriental from the 
door. 



CHAPTER VI 

JACK REGRETS HIS PROMISE 

T HE next morning Jack found himself de¬ 
tailed to carry on the foreman’s work until 
the incapacitated Harrison could again assume 
charge. He found it next to impossible to get out 
from under the watchful eye of his father. Re¬ 
signedly he worked all day, but early the following 
morning he determinedly saddled his horse and 
leaped into the saddle. 

“Where to, son?” 

He wheeled his mount to find his father coming 
down toward the corrals, an indulgent but ques¬ 
tioning smile on his face. 

“ Over to Blaine’s, Dad,” he admitted, flushing 
a trifle. “The boys have their work all laid out 
and can do very nicely until I come back. I’ll re¬ 
turn before noon.” 

“All right,” smiled Montague. “Give Patty 
my regards too — if you think of it.” 

Jack grinned and shook his fist in mock anger 
as he galloped away. 

“ I’ll bring Jim a few peaches if Blaine hasn’t 
stripped his trees,” he called back. 

He found the young lady in question making 
ready to ride into Lebanon for a number of house¬ 
hold supplies. With an exultant whoop, he swung 
75 


76 


The Round-Up 


off of his horse and joyfully encircled her slender 
young form with his arms as she was calmly and 
efficiently tightening the cinch of her saddle. 
Quick as a bird, she stooped and darted under her 
horse’s belly, leaving his arms empty, his hands 
clutching the saddle girth, while the saddle pony 
looked around curiously. 

“ Finish tightening it, smarty,” she said coolly, 
“while I go get a pair of saddlebags from the 
barn. Do you want to ride to town with me.” 

“Does a lost calf bawl?” responded the un¬ 
abashed although discomfited Jack. “Got any 
peaches left? I mean fruit peaches.” 

She favored him with a saucy glance. 

“A few. All of the market stock is gone. 
Daddy sent the last load to town yesterday.” 

She was terribly anxious to ask him where he 
had been the day before; why he had not come 
over to see her. She wondered if she had been 
too immodest or too bold in some unsuspected 
way. All day she had been so irritable and un¬ 
certain that her father had gone about the place 
uneasily. Unable to stand the inactivity longer 
she made up her mind to go to town this morning. 

She had heard that Harrison was slightly 
wounded as Winters had stopped by to tell them 
on his way to town. Blaine had ridden over to 
the DZX ranch the following day and had found 
the foreman in very good spirits. He had not 
seen Jack as the young man had been out on the 
range with the men. Hence, he had not men- 



Jack Regrets His Promise 


77 


tioned the young man to Patty although she asked 
very solicitously and sedulously regarding Har¬ 
rison. She wouldn’t have mentioned Jack Mon¬ 
tague’s name for worlds. 

Now that Jack was here she became perfectly 
calm — instantaneously. Now that he was with 
her she decided to get mad at him because he had 
made her feel so miserable yesterday. Just what 
inspires a woman with these charming little ideas 
it is hard to say. She realized that he had prob¬ 
ably been too busy to come to see her yesterday, 
but she hadn’t been able to refrain from worrying 
and now that he stood before her she realized that 
she had fretted needlessly. 

Patty was still rebellious. She was so high- 
spirited she hated to surrender herself even to this 
man without a more severe struggle. The fact 
that she was unable to struggle piqued her all the 
more. And he hadn’t told her that he loved her 
yet, either. 

“Where is your father going to ship the 
peaches?” he broke in prosaically on her musings. 
“To Memphis by steamboat?” 

“ I have no idea,” she said impatiently, looking 
angrily up into his eyes. 

The growing admiration she saw there height¬ 
ened her color and made her self-conscious. In¬ 
stantly she fell back on the commonplace topic 
which she had scorned in him. 

“ I believe he said something about a good price 
if shipped north by rail. Mr. Owens is attending 



78 


The Round-Up 


to that for him.” 

“Owens?” frowned Jack. “I don’t give that 
man so much, myself. I don’t know why. I just 
don’t like him.” 

“ I think he is nice,” she murmured perversely, 
thinking that here was the opportunity she sought 
to arouse his anger or jealousy. 

To her surprise Jack did not become angry. 
Vaguely he disappointed her. It was like pulling 
the trigger of a heavy shotgun after bracing and 
tensing against the mighty kick and roar and then 
having the hammer click harmlessly. 

“ I have no reason for disliking the man,” Jack 
hastened to speak in all fairness. “He is prob¬ 
ably perfectly all right and I shouldn’t feel as I 
do. Owens is a big business man in Lebanon. 
I’m glad he is helping your father.” 

“Oh, fudge,” exclaimed Patty impatiently, 
flinging herself onto her pony. “You are like a 
wet firecracker.” 

“How so?” demanded the surprised man. 

“You’d never understand in a week,” she re¬ 
joined tartly. “ Come on. I’ll race you to Haw¬ 
kins’ Draw.” 

This was language Jack understood. Like a 
flash he leaped from the ground into his saddle 
and whirled his mount that had long since become 
used to his athletic eccentricities. They sped out 
through the wide gate and down the road neck 
and neck. 

They rode into the main street of Lebanon at 



Jack Regrets His Promise 


79 


Dallas Corner, breathlessly and laughing. Half¬ 
way down the street which ended at the wharves 
on the river they drew up and dismounted before 
Owens’ General Store. 

A tall individual of fastidious and somewhat 
fantastic dress, slightly unconventional dress even 
in a free and easy cow town —dress such as many 
gamblers of the old days affected, appraised them 
from the corner of his eye without lifting his head 
as they entered the building. He tossed away his 
cigarette and sauntered carelessly across the baked 
mud street toward the Texas Hotel. 

Entering the lobby he strode briskly up to the 
gambling rooms on the third floor. Singling out 
two men who sat talking together he approached 
them. Without preamble he addressed himself 
to the handsomer of the two. 

“ Young Montague just came to town with the 
Blaine girl,” he announced briefly. “ They’ve just 
entered Owens’ store.” 

The seated men looked up quickly. An ugly 
expression crossed the face of the man addressed. 
The other lowered his tilted chair and leaned 
across the table. 

“Go easy, Jackson,” he warned. “No rough 
stuff with the girl present.” 

A sneering expression came over Jackson’s face. 

“When it comes to petty scruples and cautious¬ 
ness, Tilby, you win the Scotch-Jew’s birthright. 
We haven’t heard a peep out of the DZX outfit 
since I sent Harrison home on a shutter.” 



8o 


The Round-Up 


“That is just what worries me,” admitted 
Tilby. “That was a pretty rank cut. You knew 
Harrison’s holster was empty.” 

“Yes, and I meant to kill him with one shot 
too. How did I know whether or not he had an¬ 
other gun on him? You saw him reach, didn’t 
you? ” 

The Kentuckian shrugged. He was forced 
to nod. Jackson faced the newcomer. 

“What would you have done, Carter?” he de¬ 
manded. 

“You were doing it,” smiled the standing gam¬ 
bler thinly. “ I didn’t butt in. Only I believe I’d 
have shot truer.” 

“ Rot! ” snorted Jackson contemptuously. “ He 
made such a queer little jump when he discovered 
that his gun was missing that I couldn’t help it. 
Anybody else would have missed.” 

“All right,” agreed Carter amiably. “What 
about this Montague yearling?” 

“We’ll get him right now,” decided Jackson 
tersely. “ Maybe that will bring Montague in 
where we are prepared to receive him.” 

“You can’t go too strong, remember that,” pro¬ 
tested Tilby. “This country is getting civilized 
a lot faster than you think. Just because we have 
no street cars or paved streets here don’t mean 
that you are out of reach of the law. You do 
anything around the girl and Blaine will complain 
— rigorously. He’s that kind. Carruthers will 
have to start something.” 



Jack Regrets His Promise 


81 


“ Blaine! ” sneered Jackson. “ Blaine 1 Don’t 
lose any sleep over Blaine. I’ve already tagged 
him and his name is plain mud. The sheriff won’t 
start anything either. He belongs to Owens and 
you know it. He won’t make a peep.” 

“But how sure are you that Owens will stand 
for anything this strong?” still hesitated Tilby. 

“ Owens is a complete crook if I ever saw one,” 
stated Jackson patiently. “He is with us on this 
Blaine affair.” 

“He may be,” agreed Tilby slowly. “And he 
may control the sheriff but he can’t over-ride 
everything this crudely. He doesn’t control the 
courts, remember.” 

“ Don’t you know that there has been an out¬ 
break of rustling north of here?” demanded Jack- 
son wearily. . 

“Yes,” nodded Tilby. 

“Well, Carruthers will have plenty to do to 
look after that kind of trouble and we won’t be 
noticed. Come on.” 

“What are you going to do?” 

“ I am going to collect twenty thousand dollars 
worth of revenge for us and I started in the day 
before yesterday. No man has ever pulled a stunt 
on me like Montague did last fall. No one can 
do it and live either,” snarled Jackson savagely, 
his lips curling back from his even white teeth. 
“If you are too white-livered to sit in on this 
game with that smart rancher — keep out. And 
keep your mouth out. Just because you haven’t 



82 


The Round-Up 


guts enough to even that score with Montague, 
don’t back pedal on me. Do you savvy ? ” 

The Kentuckian paled a trifle. His hands trem¬ 
bled as he slowly arose and eyed the other 
steadily. 

“You forget,” he said hoarsely, “that it was 
I who flirted with death last fall when I accused 
Bill Montague of being a card cheat. Kindly 
remember what happened to that perfect scheme 
of yours. Now, just because I don’t choose to 
be a fool, because I caution you against muddling 
our plays by your personal hatred, you insult me.” 

Jackson studied him for an instant. He knew 
himself to be the better man with a gun. But 
Tilby was a man who had once possessed pride 
and self-respect. The Chicagoan read in the other 
the fanatical intention of sacrificing himself if 
necessary upon the altar of what little manhood 
remained within him — the altar of courage. It 
didn’t pay to kill a man like that. Anyway, Tilby 
was right about being cautious. Besides, were he 
to miss- 

He shrugged and smiled. 

“I beg your pardon, Tilby. I spoke too 
hastily. But what I said about Carruthers was 
true. Think it over. Will you go with us to 
Owens’ store?” 

“Oh, I’ll go, all right,” agreed Tilby noncom¬ 
mittally. 

They found the young couple busily filling their 
saddlebags with various small parcels. There 




Jack Regrets His Promise 


83 


were two or three loungers in the store who 
looked suddenly apprehensive at the entrance of 
the three gamblers and who slipped noiselessly 
away. Owens himself was not in evidence, for 
which Jackson was glad. He might have objected 
to the trouble taking place in his building. 

Carter halted near the door and, after a careful 
glance about the store, kept a sharp lookout on 
the street. Tilby leaned carelessly on a counter 
and faced the rear of the store, while Jackson 
moved softly over until his shadow fell across the. 
counter before the busy young ranchman. 

There being plenty of counter space for the 
new customer to be waited on by the clerk, young 
Montague did not move. He felt the sudden 
quiet and sensed something wrong but he did 
not take it onto himself to look around. The 
less a bystander moves and sees sometimes, the 
better. 

Jackson waited for an instant, planning his 
attack. Then, apparently observing the girl for 
the first time, he bowed and smiled. With a 
sweep of his hand he knocked several of the pack¬ 
ages to the floor. 

“Trying to take up all of the counter?” he 
asked uglily. “Get out of the way and let the 
lady be waited on.” 

Young Montague looked up in quick surprise. 
As he recognized the gambler, a quick flame 
leaped into his eyes, matching the hatred which 
blazed in the cold blue eyes before him. He took 



8 4 


The Round-Up 


in the loosely hanging right hand with it’s slightly 
curved fingers. His gaze quickly took in the 
situation, the positions of Carter and Tilby. He 
was cornered. 

The realization of this but further angered 
him. He had always been slow to anger all of his 
life and he did not flare up violently now. He 
was almost calm as he observed the white-faced 
clerk behind the counter lick his lips and tremble 
violently. He glanced behind him to see if Patty 
had drawn out of the line of fire. She stood, a 
delicious little figure in her riding breeches and 
trim little boots, hands clasped against her breast 
and eyeing him so strangely. 

“Well?” rasped Jackson, almost trembling in 
his eagerness, his fingers twitching closer to the 
handle of his gun. “Why don’t you move? You 
waiting for the lady to pick up your bundles?” 

“Why don’t you draw that pistol and hold it 
in your hand?” suggested Jack softly, silkily. 
“That would be a bit safer way to insult a man.” 

“That’s right, Jackson,” drawled Tilby. “You 
don’t want to be pulled before Judge Ryan for 
murder. Give the kid a fair break.” 

Jackson laughed sneeringly and with a visible 
effort folded his arms. 

“What’s the matter, boy? Afraid of getting 
the same dose your foreman got?” 

Jack, who had been tensing his muscles for 
quick action and having glanced behind him again 
to make sure that the girl was safely out of the 



Jack Regrets His Promise 


85 


way, relaxed. The mention of Harrison sud¬ 
denly recalled his solemn promise to Jim. For 
a long moment he stared into the hard eyes of 
the gambler, who, fearless man though he was, 
must have felt the longing he saw in the younger 
man’s gaze. Then, without a word, Jack stooped 
and picked up the fallen packages. 

White to the lips, completely sick with rage 
and humiliation, he stuffed them into the saddle¬ 
bags and flung the leather sacks over his shoul¬ 
ders. Avoiding the eyes of everyone he walked 
out and hung the bags onto the saddles. 

“And that’s the fellow who wanted to eat you 
up last fall, Tilby,” said Jackson mockingly as 
he bowed again to the infuriated girl before him. 

Patty drew herself up imperiously and with 
flashing eyes and flaming face walked furiously 
out to the horses. She drew back from her com¬ 
panion with a glance of burning scorn as he sought 
to assist her into her saddle. Before the amazed 
Jack could comprehend she swung herself onto 
her mount and touched the animal smartly. The 
beast leaped forward and she galloped down the 
street toward Dallas Corner. 

Surprised, still silent, and fighting against his 
anger at his helplessness, the man spurred after 
her, neither of them missing the amazed but 
taunting laughter of the gambler in the store. 

Jack overtook her shortly after turning out 
on Dallas Road. 

“Say,” he called. “What’s the matter?” 




86 


The Round-Up 


“What’s the matter with you, you — you cow¬ 
ard,” she almost sobbed. 

“Ohl” exclaimed he, understanding being 
granted him. “That’s the man who shot Jim 
when he went into the Texas Hotel unarmed the 
other day.” 

“ I notice that you are not unarmed, though,” 
she rejoined scornfully. 

“Jim will be going back to town in a few 
days,” said Jack quietly, his face flushing. 

“What has that to do with you? Oh, leave 
me alone. Don’t ride with me. Don’t ever speak 
to me again,” she burst out, touching her horse 
with a spur. 

The man spurred after her. When he caught 
up again he coolly reached across and caught 
the bits of her mount. Bringing both horses to 
a stop he studied her quizzically. 

“ Control yourself, young lady,” he admonished 
firmly. “ Can’t you understand this matter with¬ 
out me drawing you a picture of it? Now, when 
Jim-” 

She raised her bridle reins and brought the 
dangling ends down across his wrist with a hard 
slap. The leather straps wrapped burningly 
about his forearm. He quivered a trifle as he 
held her horse steady and looked at her reprov¬ 
ing eyes. 

“Turn my horse loose,” she demanded furi¬ 
ously. “Let me go. That is the way a coward 
acts generally — bullying women. Leave me 




Jack Regrets His Promise 


87 


alone, I say.” 

A tiny flame began to burn in the man’s eyes. 
He looked at her peculiarly. His lips gradually 
drew taut over his teeth and he glanced back to¬ 
ward Dallas Corner. His appearance startled 
her. She had never seen him look like this before. 
He looked like an unleashed tiger, somehow. She 
was afraid. 

He calmly unfastened with his free hand the 
saddlebag from the cantle of his saddle and swung 
it before the girl. 

“The remainder of your packages, mademoi¬ 
selle,” he said frigidly, stiffly polite. 

Raising his hat with an exaggerated courtesy 
he released her reins, wheeled his mount and gal¬ 
loped back toward Dallas Corner, leaving a 
frightened, amazed, and highly indignant young 
woman completely in possession of the solitude 
she had craved. 



CHAPTER VII 

AN INTERVIEW WITH THE SHERIFF 


I T CUT deeply to have Patty think him a 
coward. But he couldn’t blame her. His 
conduct had looked funny. Confound that prom¬ 
ise to Jim anyway. He knew he would regret it. 
He gritted his teeth as the echo of Jackson’s un¬ 
pleasant laugh rang in his ears. He proceeded 
to mentally draw and quarter the handsome gam¬ 
bler after putting him through numerous tortures 
that put the Inquisition to blush. Surely there 
was some way he could be revenged upon the man 
without breaking his promise to the foreman. 
Ah! There was. He could call on the sheriff. 

His horse turned, stopped, and lowered its 
head at the hitch rail before the Mexican Dollar 
saloon. Jack smiled. His good humor was re¬ 
stored and he was a normal being once more. The 
inner dynamo had but stirred. 

“ I reckon that is as good a suggestion as any, 
pinto,” he said, patting the animal’s neck. “ I’ll 
run in and take a little shot before we go farther.” 

He swung one leg over the horse’s back and 
then stood in one stirrup in surprise. Three men 
stepped out through the swinging doors of the 
saloon. They eyed him in stunned astonishment 
for a split second. Then, with a startled oath, 
88 


An Interview with the Sheriff 


89 


the middle man made a swift grab at his holster. 
Instantly, the two others caught his arms and 
hurried him back into the saloon. 

“Upon second thought,” amended Jack to his 
patiently waiting mount, “ I guess that’s as near 
a shot as I want this morning. We’ll mosey on 
down the boulevard. Now what the mischief is 
Owens doing playing around with Jackson and 
Carter? Of course he owns the Mexican Dol¬ 
lar and can go in and out with any of his patrons 
he wishes to, but it looks funny.” 

A hundred yards farther on he slacked his 
reins and leaped down before a weather-beaten, 
one-storied, little frame building, above the door 
of which a tin sign swinging on a short iron arm 
proclaimed that this was the sheriff’s office until 
the new municipal courthouse was finished. 

The door was open and Jack rode up on to the 
stone sidewalk and peered in. Sheriff Carruthers 
was present and he was alone. 

Jack dismounted and entered. He found the 
sheriff seated behind his desk, fingers wide spread 
and pressed tip to tip. The troubled expression 
sitting upon his brow indicated that he was pur¬ 
suing a very elusive thought. 

The most striking feature about Sheriff Car¬ 
ruthers was his very prolific beard, one of the 
most famous in the entire Southwest. He was of 
that old school of pilose fossils whose beards 
made the West very picturesque, but which, never¬ 
theless, smelled like hair and were stained with 



90 


The Round-Up 


tobacco juice. In conversing with one, the sher¬ 
iff had a nervous or at least an irritating habit of 
fingering his lengthy appendage, twisting it into 
peculiar knots and geometric symbols. He varied 
the monotony of this when he endorsed an agree¬ 
able statement. In this case he made one com¬ 
plete stroke of his beard horizontally, ironing out 
the little tangles he might have made, preparing 
for a new intricate design, and sanctioning a re¬ 
mark at one and the same time. His black eyes 
stared beadily up at his visitor. 

“Sheriff Carruthers, I believe,” stated Jack 
gravely. 

The representative of the law maintained his 
intense pose of concentration. He compromised 
this cold and distant attitude by cocking a thought¬ 
ful eye at the newcomer. Then he squinted care¬ 
fully at the ceiling as though weighing the remark 
thoroughly before committing himself to any 
statement. Finally he brought his hard eyes back 
to the slim and straight form before him. 

“ Kee — rect,” he announced, jerking out a 
salute with his beard. 

“Wonderful,” sighed Jack in tremulous relief. 
“ But I hardly thought I could be mistaken.” 

“How’s that?” grunted Carruthers suspi¬ 
ciously. 

“You almost made me think that I had picked 
the wrong man,” rejoined young Montague 
seriously. “However I now see that it is really 
you. I recognize you by yourself, you see. Had 




An Interview with the Sheriff _91 

you been other than who you are you wouldn’t 
have been quite so easy of identification as your 
present self. But it is not necessary to consider 
that contingency. Hence, you being-” 

“Huh?” snorted the sheriff, jerking erect. 
“Whatinell yuh talkin’ ’bout?” 

“Nothing. Nothing,” waved the young man 
easily. “ Contain yourself. I was just thinking 
that you were not so glad to see me. Your in¬ 
dolent attitude denotes a sluggish liver. Get Doc¬ 
tor Sawyer to give you a good round of calomel. 
It will do you no end of good.” 

Carruthers narrowed his eyes and stared uglily 
at the other. 

“What are yuh lookin’ for, young feller? 
Trouble?” 

“Not at all, my good sir, not at all. I wish to 
confer with you. But I didn’t see you jump up 
and give me a welcome hand, saying, ‘Glad yuh 
dropped in, Mr. Montague. Is they anything I 
can do for yuh?’ Really, my reception has been 
anything but cordial.” 

“Oh!” said Carruthers, raising his eyebrows. 
“Yore name Montague? I was deep in th’ study 
of uh rustlin’ problem. What’s on yore mind?” 

“You!” snapped the young rancher suddenly, 
crisply, and the sheriff started. “Why haven’t 
you put the attempted murderer of Jim Harrison 
behind the bars? He’s still at liberty.” 

“Murderer? Bars?” rumbled Carruthers, 
fumbling with his whiskers. “Them’s heavy 




92 


The Round-Up 


words, young feller.” 

“ I’ve the foolish idea that I’m heavy enough 
to back ’em up.” 

“Foolish? Foolish?” quizzed the other 
thoughtfully. “Kee — rect,” he chuckled, 
stroking his beard with a swift, smooth motion 
that bespoke many hours of practice. 

“Just because you swallowed a horse, don’t 
get funny.” 

“Swallowed uh hoss?” 

The sheriff floundered heavily far behind 
Jack’s wit. 

“I don’t-” 

“ I notice you currying its tail there.” 

Carruthers scowled blackly. He eyed the young 
man heavily. 

“Jackson, the gambler, shot Jim Harrison the 
day before yesterday in wanton cold blooded¬ 
ness,” pursued young Montague. “Now, why 
haven’t you locked him up?” 

“Did yuh see th’ shootin’, young feller?” 
queried Carruthers softly. 

“No. But plenty of others did,” returned 
Jack shortly. 

“ Kee — rect,” endorsed the sheriff approvingly, 
running the scale on his whisker trombone. “ I’ve 
inquired all ’round an’ I found it was jes’ uh sim¬ 
ple shootin’ scrape. They both went fer their 
guns.” 

“And Harrison didn’t have his gun with him,” 
concluded Jack warmly. 





An Interview with the Sheriff 


93 


Carruthers shrugged as he twisted his beard 
into a triangular braid. “That wasn’t my fault, 
I don’t reckon. Yuh ain’t holdin’ me responsible 
fer that?” 

The ranchman ignored the sarcasm. He 
pointed one finger accusingly at the bulky man 
behind the desk. 

“Jackson knew that Harrison was unarmed,” 
he grated. 

“Huh? Is that possible?” 

The sheriff was the personification of pained 
surprise. 

The young man snorted in impatient disgust. 

“Prove it,” stated the sheriff. “Prove it an’ 
yuh won’t even hafta swear out uh warrant.” 

He turned back to his desk and dexterously 
thrust a black stogie through the pilose monstros¬ 
ity upon his face, unerringly finding his mouth. 
Jack stared in wonder, even as he stiffened under 
the plain dismissal. 

“ Do I understand that you will take no action, 
then?” he demanded in a hard voice. 

“If yore hearin’ is good,” rejoined Carruthers 
indifferently. 

The ranchman turned abruptly and started out. 
The sheriff grinned behind his whiskers — a grin 
that changed into an idiotic expression as the 
other whirled about and flung one parting shot 
before springing upon his horse. 

“ Don’t light that stogie unless those Russian 
pets are asbestos. Kee — rect?” said Jack. 




94 


The Round-Up 


He rode back to the ranch in a disgruntled 
mood. No one was in evidence about the Blaine 
house as he rode by and he traveled stolidly by, 
never seeing the flash of the curtain in the front 
room. 

He found his father talking with the foreman 
who was sitting up in bed. Entering the room 
he sat down so disgustedly that the cattleman eyed 
him keenly. 

“ Spill it, son. Patty out riding with Curly or 
somebody? ” 

“Naw,” returned Jack inelegantly. “Eve run 
a blazer on this gang.” 

“What’s ailin’ yuh, Jack?” asked Harrison, 
studying the young fellow’s angry face. 

“ I went to town with Patty Blaine this morn¬ 
ing,” announced the young man abruptly. 

Montague and Harrison exchanged glances. 

“Well?” prompted the father. 

“Jackson and his two henchmen came into 
Owens’ store and tried to start a rumpus. I kept 
my promise.” 

“An’ came home alive,” added Harrison 
gently. 

“ I’d rather have died,” declared Jack, his eyes 
flashing. “ I had to slink out like a mangy cur.” 

The foreman’s eyes shone suspiciously. 

“It takes a braver man to do that, son,” he 
said softly. 

“That wasn’t the worst,” added Jack bitterly. 

“What did she say, Jack?” asked his father. 



An Interview with the Sheriff 


95 


The young man snapped erect and glared at 
his father. 

“How did you know?” he demanded. 

The rancher only smiled slightly, commiserat- 
ingly. 

“ She got so mad she almost scorched,” ad¬ 
mitted his son ruefully. “ She ran away from me 
twice and I finally let her go. I was so mad I 
turned around and went back to town. She thinks 
I’m afraid of the gambler.” 

“What did you do when you went back?” de¬ 
manded the father quickly. 

“Nothing much. I saw Jackson, Carter, and 
Owens coming out of the Mexican Dollar. Jack- 
son nearly fainted at my reappearance and then 
he’d have shot me if the other two hadn’t grabbed 
him. I decided to go see the sheriff and find out 
why he hadn’t arrested the gambler.” 

“What did he say?” asked Harrison curiously. 

“He said for me to prove that Jackson knew 
you were unarmed. What do you know about 
that? Not a single bit of action has been taken. 
I guess I ought to have gone to see Judge Ryan. 
What do you know about Owens being with that 
healthy pair?” 

“We feared as much, Jack,” admitted his 
father slowly. “ I guess this about settles it. It 
is now our move. For some obscure reason 
Owens, one of the richest men in Lebanon, is 
protecting the gamblers. Carruthers belongs to 
him and so there you are. I’ll ride in to see Judge 




96 


The Round-Up 


Ryan myself tonight — after dark.” 

“I’ll be ready,” agreed Jack. 

“To stay on the ranch and keep an eye on the 
punchers,” finished the elder Montague. 

“Aw, Dad. That isn’t fair. Sing Li is here 
to take care of Jim and the boys’ll go to bed. 
Are you trying to hide something from me?” 

“No. Not now. Your place is here, particu¬ 
larly should anything unforeseen occur. You and 
Jim can thresh out the whole matter.” 

“All right, all right. I’m the goat,” agreed 
Jack resignedly. “Jim, if yuh want me to roll 
yuh some cigarettes, heap together yore wan¬ 
derin’ wits an’ talk sense tonight. Things ain’t 
suitin’ me none whatsoever.” 



CHAPTER VIII 

OWENS’ COMPLICITY 

I T WAS a clear night and the sky was of that 
blue-gray color which lingers after dusk in 
early summer before the stars gradually wink into 
being, slipping into their places in the heavens 
like truant scholars who fear the wrath of the 
school master for their tardiness. An early moon, 
delicately veiled in a fleecy lacework of clouds, 
was calmly sailing in the east, slowly climbing her 
invisible ladder toward the zenith. 

Bill Montague rode silently along the clearly 
defined road to Lebanon, swaying slightly to the 
motion of his horse, enjoying the creak of saddle 
leather, his mount’s “horsey” odor, the strong 
and comfortable gait. It took the wide, open 
reaches of the range, along with other things, 
to bring him solace for the gentle wife who had 
tarried with him but so short a while. 

As he skirted Blaine’s fence-lined property he 
glanced sympathetically toward the neat, white 
farmhouse which was set in quite a bit from the 
road. With all of his sorrow he sensed that 
Blaine had faced a more stony life amid bleak 
surroundings as a widower with a lone girl child. 

A figure on horseback rode out from under the 
shadow of a great oak tree where the road turned 
97 


98 


The Round-Up 


in at the farm gate and stopped. The rancher 
spoke to his horse which immediately slowed to 
a walk. He quietly slipped his holster toward 
the front. For his observant eye had noted that 
the rider before him wore two cartridge belts 
with holsters crisscrossed about his hips. In the 
crook of his arm he carried a heavy rifle. 

“That you, Montague?” called the stationary 
horseman. 

“ Hello, Blaine,” responded the cattleman 
calmly. “Riding somewhere tonight?” 

“Yep,” replied the fruit grower shortly. 
“You weren’t coming to my place, were you?” 

“No. I’m riding toward town myself. Going 
that way?” 

Blaine nodded and swung his horse around to 
pair the rancher’s mount. They rode for a few 
yards in silence, Montague glancing keenly under 
the brim of the other’s hat into Blaine’s tense 
face. 

“How did the peach crop come out?” he ven¬ 
tured at length, speaking casually and gesturing 
toward the rows and rows of peach trees in the 
orchard they were passing. 

“Good crop,” grunted Blaine shortly. “Just 
a few eating peaches left.” 

Montague nodded. At length, violating the 
tacit silence of the westerner, he said quietly: 

“Anything I can do, Blaine?” 

“ I knew you were going to ask that,” responded 
the fruit grower unresentfully. “ I guess not. 



Owens y Complicity 


99 


Business deal. Got to interview a man.” 

“Not meaning to be too personal, Blaine, but 
it looks like you are prepared for a pretty stormy 
interview. Don’t forget — your daughter.” 

“Thanks. You’re neighborly, Montague, and 
you’ve been mighty kind to me. I don’t see how 
you can help and I don’t want you just butting 
in, but I’ll tell you. It’s Owens. I turned my 
entire peach crop over to him. He was to ship 
them at once. I was to pay him twenty-five cents 
per bushel for storage and brokerage.” 

Montague checked an exclamation. Things 
were becoming clearer to him. Instead of speak¬ 
ing he looked across Blaine’s shoulder at the 
massed rows of trees. 

“This afternoon I heard from Owens,” con¬ 
tinued Blaine in a weary voice. “ He said that 
half of my peaches rotted before he could ship 
them. The balance had to be sold for culls at a 
dollar a bushel. He attached a bill of lading 
showing that he had shipped only four cars of 
peaches. He deducted storage and commission 
on the entire ten thousand bushels and sent me 
his check for twenty-five hundred dollars. If 
I-” 

He ceased and drew rein. Montague did like¬ 
wise and they listened intently to a slight commo¬ 
tion in the orchard. There was a faint crash and 
the unmistakable sound of a vexed man swearing 
fluently. 

“Who’s there?” called Blaine. 




IOO 


The Round-Up 


There was no answer and the linguistic artist 
fell suddenly silent. 

“I’ll stir you up a bit, whoever you are,” 
grunted the fruit grower and he raised his rifle 
to his shoulder. 

As the sharp staccato of the shot barked out 
in the stillness there was the rapid rustling of 
leaves in the orchard. 

“Hey!” bellowed an irate voice. “It ain’t 
fair to hunt birds with uh rifle. Yuh come mighty 
near shootin’ th’ britches offa me.” 

“How many of you birds are there,” laughed 
Montague. “No balking now, Curly.” 

“Jes’ me an’ Frank,” called back the peach 
fancier sheepishly. 

There was startled protest by another voice. 

“He’s th’ biggest liar in seven states, Mr. 
Montague. He’s plumb by hisself.” 

“You two boys come here,” commanded the 
rancher. 

He turned back to Blaine. 

“You had just received a check from Owens,” 
he prompted. “Go on.” 

“ If I accept it, I am ruined,” resumed the agri¬ 
culturist in a dispassionate voice. “Will hardly 
pay pickers and boxing expenses. I can’t pay the 
mortgage — can’t renew it — can’t even live the 
rest of the year. I think I can make Owens 
change his mind.” 

“ I don’t think you can,” disagreed the rancher 
quietly. “In any event, remember that you can 



Owens’ Complicity 


IOI 


arrange the matter of a loan with me, if it comes 
to that.” 

“ Thank you, Montague. I know you mean it. 
But that would be just that much more money to 
pay back. I want my own money. Not used to 
being held up without a gun. Don’t like it.” 

“ I fear you will never get to Owens alive while 
you are in this frame of mind. Don’t you know 
he will be looking for you? If you were to reach 
him, to shoot him won’t relieve matters — it’ll 
just complicate them. He had you all sewed up 
before he made this move, I will swear it. You 
won’t be able to prove a thing.” 

“What do you want me to do? Take it lying 
down?” 

“No! But there is more to it than just steal¬ 
ing your peaches. Do you remember that poker 
game last fall?” 

“ I’m hardly likely to forget it,” returned 
Blaine. 

“And you know that Jackson wounded Har¬ 
rison the other day. Now let me add something 
you don’t know. Owens was with the gambler 
when he winged Jim. They are in cahoots and 
Owens owns the sheriff. Jack was in town this 
morning and Jackson tried to get him.” 

“ Patty told me about that,” said Blaine, 
wincing at the remembrance of the furious young 
woman who had taken out her anger on him. 

“Jack had promised Jim not to mix with the 
gambler,” explained Montague casually, “so he 



102 


The Round-Up 


was unable to mix with Jackson, which was a very 
fortunate thing.” 

“Sensible,” endorsed Blaine. “I figured that it 
was something of that nature.” 

“ I am on my way to see Judge Ryan now. 
You had better go with me,” suggested the 
rancher. “Legal consultation is essential. We 
want to find out just where we stand before we 
make a move.” 

Before the other could reply the two peach 
poachers came up to the horsemen. 

“Me an’ Curly was after some peaches ’cause 
Jim an’ Jack didn’t bring none,” Frank began ex¬ 
plaining. “Yuh see-” 

“Where are your horses?” interrupted Mon¬ 
tague crisply. 

“ Cross th’ road in that clump uh laurels,” 
stated Curly quickly, catching the steely timbre 
in the rancher’s voice. 

“Why all th’ ornaments, brother?” Frank 
asked Blaine curiously. “ It ain’t Christmas.” 

“Never mind that now,” snapped the rancher. 
“ Be still for a moment. Blaine, you consent to 
go to Judge Ryan’s with me and I’ll prove to you 
that Owens has got you blocked. Will you do 
it?” 

“All right,” conceded the fruit grower. “I’ll 
go by there with you.” 

“Good. Now, listen to me, you two peach 
rustlers. I want you to go to town for me. Get 
your horses and ride straight to Lebanon. Go in 




Owens’ Complicity 


103 


quietly and make no fuss. And don’t stop at any 
of the forty-three saloons on Main Street. You 
probably wouldn’t come back — ever. Go straight 
down to the freight depot and rout old man 
Myers out. Find out from him how many cars 
of peaches Owens actually shipped last week. 
He’ll tell you four, but you tell him that I know 
better and I want his personal note telling me the 
truth. Waste no time, see Myers quietly, and 
remember that this is deadly serious. Meet me 
at Judge Ryan’s home as soon as you succeed. 
Do you get all this ? ” 

“ Yuh’re shore whistlin’,” said Frank promptly. 

“All right. Don’t mix with anyone,” cau¬ 
tioned the rancher. “ Sidestep everybody.” 

The two punchers started joyously for their 
horses. They departed in a swirl of dust, leaving 
the two older men to follow at a more sedate 
pace. 

“Now what d’yuh know ’bout that, Curly?” 
said Frank. “But, shucks, they ain’t no fun 
goin’ to town like this.” 

“It looks like they’s gonna be uh lotta fun 
later on,” rejoined Curly grimly. “Git goin’, 
cowboy.” 

The two DZX men rode into Lebanon like 
gray phantoms in the moonlight. Regretfully they 
passed up the luring lights and merry uproar of 
the street of many saloons. The sheriff’s office 
was closed and dark. 

“ I guess Carruthers’ll be happier’n uh a cow 



104 


The Round-Up 


with uh first calf when he plants his feet on th’ 
desk in th’ new courthouse. I wonder when it’ll 
be finished?” 

“ Mr. Montague said somethin’ ’bout it bein’ 
completed before fall,” returned Frank to Cur¬ 
ly’s comment. 

They turned at the foot of the street and dis¬ 
mounted in the shadow of the freight house. 
They pounded softly but insistently upon the door 
of the station agent’s little room until the old man 
got grumblingly out of bed and came to investigate 
the disturbance. 

“They ain’t no train out tonight if yuh’re pas¬ 
sengers,” he stated wearily in a singsong voice. 
“ They ain’t no money in th’ express box if yuh’re 
holdup men an’ this ain’t no roomin’ house fer 
maudlin cowpunchers if yuh’re drunk. If yuh 
wants more information they’s forty-three saloons 
planted ’long th’ whole dang street. Yuh can’t 
miss ’em all. Goodnight,” and he proceeded to 
close the half-opened door. 

“Wait, Myers, wait,” commanded Curly in a 
hoarse whisper. “ Leave th’ door open uh min¬ 
ute. Yuh won’t catch cold this time uh year. We 
come to see yuh fer Bill Montague.” 

“Huh?” exclaimed the station agent. 

“Can’t we palaver inside?” suggested Frank. 
“ It’d look more hospital fer one thing.” 

For answer the now wide-awake agent stood 
aside and beckoned them in. Carefully closing 
the door behind them, he faced the two punchers 



Owens’ Complicity 


105 


expectantly, his pointed nightcap lending him an 
elfin appearance as he stood there holding his 
lantern. 

“Yuh say Bill Montague wants me?” queried 
the old man puzzledly. 

“He wants to know somethin’ that yuh can 
tell him,” corrected one of the punchers. 

The station agent looked interested. 

“ How many cars of peaches did Owens ship 
for Henry Blaine?” demanded Curly abruptly. 

Myers started slightly and eyed his questioner 
mildly. 

“If I don’t fergit, th’ bill o’ ladin’ an’ my 
shippin’ record says four cars,” he replied cau¬ 
tiously. 

“That’s right. But Bill Montague wants to 
know how many cars really was shipped.” 

The little old man sighed. 

“ I knew that somethin’ would develop outa this 
mess. But I couldn’t help it. I work fer Owens 
— he got me this job.” 

“Sure, sure, we understand,” soothed Frank. 
“Yuh’re all right, Myers. Now, tell us how 
many cars was shipped.” 

“ I ain’t at liberty to tell yuh boys railroad busi¬ 
ness,” stated Mr. Myers calmly. “ Besides which, 
I don’t work at night.” 

“Th’ sonuvagun!” ejaculated Curly. “Don’t 
freeze up none, Myers. C’mon. Yuh had uh 
good start.” 

Myers remained silent, staring at the two men 




io6 


The Round-Up 


with troubled eyes. 

“Wouldn’t yuh do it for Bill Montague?’" 
asked Frank reproachfully. “Why, Myers.” 

“Is it fer Bill hisself?” queried the uneasy old 
man. 

“Yuh betcha, an’ yuh know he’s gotta good 
reason for wantin’ to know.” 

The station agent looked around cautiously. 
Immediately, for the adventurous-minded punch¬ 
ers, things took on a somber note. 

“ Five cars uh general merchandise was shipped 
at th’ same time,” admitted Myers guardedly. 

“Aw, shucks,” grunted Frank, his rising hopes 
dashed cruelly to the ground. 

“What did them cars uh general merchandise 
consist of?” prompted Curly, suspicious. 

“ Half-ripe peaches,” whispered the old station 
agent dramatically. “An’ I ain’t seen as purty uh 
lot in some distance.” 

“Ah!” breathed the two punchers together. 

“Owens oughta join Jesse James,” commented 
Frank. “ I begin to git th’ general idea uh Blaine’s 
harness.” 

“ Write that down on uh piece uh paper,” com¬ 
manded Curly. “Bill Montague is waitin’ for it 
right now.” 

But Myers balked here. He flatly refused to 
commit himself to this extent. It was only after 
repeated urgings that he consented to dress and 
go with them to see Montague, in person, to make 
his report. 



Owens’ Complicity 


107 


As crude as the steal was, as palpable a lie as 
the falsified bill of lading was, the scheme was 
not as fantastic and childish an affair as one would 
imagine. In the days of the nineties, before the 
advent of cold storage houses and refrigerator 
cars, all perishable green stuffs had to be shipped 
in an unripe condition and shipped immediately. 
Owens’ villainy was perfectly plain, but his word 
was as good as Blaine’s and the foodstuff in ques¬ 
tion had already been shipped. Thus, he was 
able to ride roughshod over the farmer as many 
of the powerful men of the old West so overrode 
the rights of others. 

Henry Blaine stared at the affidavit which lay 
on Judge Ryan’s table before him. He blinked 
uncertainly and looked up at the compassionate¬ 
faced rancher across from him. His gaze wan¬ 
dered to the face of the little station agent who 
had made this paper for him. It traveled across 
the two cowpunchers who stood somewhat back 
from the table. Finally it came to rest upon the 
big, red-faced man at the head of the table. 

Judge Ryan shook his head pityingly at the 
pleading expression. 

“Sure, me dear Mister Blaine, ’tis as plain as 
th’ nose on yer face. Owens is wan divil of a 
scoundrel an’ this paper proves it, but ’tis wan 
divil of a job an’ it costs money to convict him.” 

“Then — then, why not let me go after him 
as I intended, if the law can’t touch him?” de- 



io8 


The Round-Up 


manded Blaine hoarsely. 

“ Because it is murder for you to run into him 
now,” said Montague crisply. “ He is expecting 
you and you’ll never reach him.” 

“What do you expect me to do? This ruins 
me, as it is.” 

“Take that paper home and lock it up some¬ 
where,” directed the rancher. “ If you need 
money, you can get it from me. Don’t cash that 
check either. Wait a few days — a few weeks 
if necessary, and Owens will tip his hand and we 
will take up the matter with him. He will be 
off his guard and we will be able to handle him.” 

“But-” 

“That’s th’ best ye can do,” endorsed Ryan. 
“We’ll trip th’ dirty rascal yit. Wait. Wait. 
Wait. That fools ’em all if ye’ve th’ patience.” 

Blaine stared stonily before him and then 
slowly bowed his head to the inevitable. 




CHAPTER IX 

A PEACH ADJUSTMENT 

I T BEGAN to appear as though Montague 
had been mistaken, for the days sped by and 
nothing further was heard from Owens. The 
new courthouse was finished and the scattered 
officials of the law were drawn together under 
the one ample roof. Late summer was coming 
on apace; the ground was dry and a dust haze 
hung continually over the range where the cattle 
moved. The vivid green of spring gave way 
before the darker colors of mature summer, and 
still Owens did not come. 

The water holes were slowly drying up and a 
number of steers were drowned in the two rivers. 
There was an increase in the shootings and 
sporadic outbreaks in Lebanon, but the range 
country lay comparatively quiet. There was an 
occasional complaint of rustling, but the greatest 
cause for uneasiness was the numerous bank rob¬ 
beries in the surrounding little towns. And still 
Owens did not stir. 

The realtor’s villainy was not known, as Blaine 
had quietly accepted a loan from the DZX 
rancher and had paid his pickers off. Jim Har¬ 
rison had made one special trip over to the Blaine 
farm to see Patty. He had told her certain 
109 



IIO 


The Round-Up 


things, had prated about the codes and ethics of 
cowland, and had talked particularly of a gentle¬ 
man’s promise and how sacred it was considered. 
He had concluded by casually mentioning that he 
was pretty well recovered and he would shortly 
take up a little personal matter with Jackson, the 
Chicago gambler. When he concluded his little 
story Patty proceeded to say several things very 
distinctly, among which she mentioned that a man 
who would tie another man up to a promise of 
that sort was little short of a murderer. Further¬ 
more, any man who tamely submitted to such an 
arrangement was a timorous character of unbal¬ 
anced mentality. Last but not least, Mr. Jim 
Harrison needn’t come slipping around for one 
Jack Montague; he was acting like a boy caught 
in some misdemeanor. If Jack Montague had 
anything to say he’d better come and say it him¬ 
self. And Harrison went home, his ears aflame. 
And Owens had not moved yet. 

But the realtor had been but biding his time. 
Upon the day that Blaine’s patience was holding 
by a mere thread, he inquired confidentially at 
the Lebanon National Bank for the fruit grow¬ 
er’s balance. His answer, given him by an 
unscrupulous assistant cashier at sight of an en¬ 
ticing greenback, stirred him into action. He 
rode out to visit the farmer. 

“Horsehead” Owens, so called because of his 
long, sardonic cast of countenance, was a very 
reticent being. Speech to him was a severe effort. 



A Peach Adjustment 


in 


He clipped his phrases; he clipped his words. He 
had so grown into the habit of communing with 
himself that animated conversation with a second 
person was utterly impossible for him. 

The man was well set up and, for a person of 
forty years, carried little if any fat upon his bones. 
He gave the appearance of a slow, uncouth hill 
billy with his dusty, rumpled trousers shoved into 
the tops of his ordinary, worn old boots. He was 
clean-shaven, seamed of face, grizzled of hair. 
His eyes were hard, a flint-like color, his lips 
tight and firm, his shoulders and arms as power¬ 
ful as a young bear’s. 

He rode well, and in his youth he had been 
known as a victorious rough and tumble fighter. 
What he lacked in personality for people who 
did not like him he made up in silence. And he 
had gone steadily forward, grasping, acquiring, 
accumulating. Anything that stood in the path 
between him and the object of his desires, he 
calmly but ruthlessly removed. Although many 
of his deeds bordered on criminality he managed 
to stay just within the safe side of the law. 

Blaine was sitting under a shed before a grind¬ 
stone sharpening a number of tools when the 
realtor rode into the farmyard. An inscrutable 
expression crossed his face as he recognized his 
visitor. He did not move and Owens rode up 
to the shed and sat upon his horse, looking down 
upon the farmer without dismounting. 

“ Howdy,” he grunted amiably. 



112 


The Round-Up 


“Good morning, Mr. Owens,” rejoined Blaine, 
fighting to keep the scowl from his face. 

“Thought I’d ride out — inquire ’bout crops. 
Any cotton ? ” 

“You know very well that I did nothing this 
year except raise peaches. I didn’t have the time 
or the money to do anything else.” 

“Need money?” inquired Owens keenly, as 
though he were unaware of the other’s condition. 

“Yes,” rejoined Blaine shortly. “I do.” 

“Mebble can arrange second mortgage as I 
hold first. What say?” 

Blaine arose and brushed his hands. 

“ I don’t think I’m interested,” he said. 

“ The interest on your first mortgage falls due 
the first of the month,” reminded Owens gently. 
“Think I can fix things up.” 

“ Come up to the house,” said Blaine grimly. 
“ I’ll talk to you.” 

Seated in the big room at the front of the house 
Blaine faced his creditor across the table. In the 
drawer under his hand was the check of the 
realtor’s and the affidavit of the station agent. 

Having studied the farmer carefully and seeing 
no signs of fight over the peach deal, Owens pro¬ 
ceeded to calmly table that matter at once. 

“Too bad about your peaches,” he clipped. 
“Couldn’t help it. Market bad this year—ship¬ 
ping rotten. Better luck next season. Now-” 

“There was nothing wrong with my peaches, 
Owens,” disagreed Blaine abruptly. “You sim- 




A Peach Adjustment _113 

ply stole them from me.” 

The realtor fell silent. His eyes settled steadily 
upon the angry glance of the farmer. His fingers 
twitched slightly as they lay on the table. Had 
he misjudged this man? If Blaine had intended 
showing fight he would have done so long ago. 
He dropped one hand into his lap. 

“ Terrible statement to holder of your mort¬ 
gage, Blaine,” he hissed. “Want to amend 
same? ” 

“No,” roared Blaine, jerking open the drawer 
beneath his hand. “ I can prove it.” 

“You are a liar, Blaine,” stated the other 
calmly. “ Keep hands out of drawer. Have you 
covered.” 

Blaine, who had meant to reach for the papers 
necessary to prove his statement, paused in acute 
surprise. 

“ You draw a gun on me — in my own house? ” 

“Yqu need money,” rejoined Owens. “You 
are desperate. Natural for you to turn to last 
man dealt with to pry money from. Feared this. 
Came to help you.” 

“ Doubtless,” snarled Blaine in biting sarcasm. 

“Did,” continued Owens smoothly. “Will 
cancel first mortgage completely and lend you five 
thousand. On certain condition.” 

Blaine wouldn’t have been human if he hadn’t 
been curious at the other’s proposition. 

“What are you driving at?” he demanded in¬ 
quisitively. 



The Round-Up 


£i4 

Both men had been so intent, each upon the 
other, that they failed to hear or see the horse¬ 
man who rode slowly up to the house. 

Jack Montague had come to make his peace 
with Patty Blaine. 

“Bachelor—single man,” explained Owens 
with his economy of words. “ Like your daugh¬ 
ter. Will marry her. On day she marries me 
will cancel mortgage and lend you five thousand.” 

Blaine’s jaw sagged in complete surprise. He 
gasped as he eyed the man before him. That 
Owens, a man old enough to be Patty’s father, 
should show such a bent, actually staggered the 
fruit grower. 

“ Do I understand you to be offering me finan¬ 
cial relief in exchange for my daughter’s hand?” 
he managed to utter queerly. 

“ Right,” endorsed Owens, licking his lips las¬ 
civiously. 

“Suppose she objects to the arrangement?” 
queried Blaine, choking oddly, bearing slowly on 
the table before him and gently easing his feet 
out from under the piece of furniture. 

“That’s how you earn cancellation of mortgage 
— handling girl. Come. What’s answer?” 

“ I told you that I had proof to show you are 
a crook,” said Blaine tersely. “ I see that I need 
no proof to prove you are a scoundrel and a vul¬ 
ture as well. My answer is no, you damn rascal,” 
he finished with a shout, springing to his feet and 
turning toward the old-fashioned mantel above 



A Peach Adjustment _115 

which hung his rifle. 

Owens raised his hand from his lap, a six 
shooter in his grasp. A scream from a girlish 
throat came from the doorway leading into the 
dining room. 

“ Stop! Blaine, I’ll shoot,” crisped the realtor. 

“ Both of you stop where you are,” broke in a 
hard, metallic voice from the hallway behind 
Owens’ back. “Stand still, Blaine. Put down 
that gun, Owens.” 

But the fruit grower was too infuriated to care 
for consequences. He was blinded with rage. 
He didn’t stop to think that he could not reach 
his gun before the realtor shot him. He didn’t 
reason at all. He only knew that he must shove 
the muzzle of his rifle into that ugly face and 
pump until the gun was empty. 

Owens didn’t have time to turn toward the new 
voice. Coolly his finger tightened on the trigger. 
Whoever it was behind him could readily see that 
it was a matter of self-defense. 

A mere gun was not sufficient to quell or con¬ 
trol this situation. Jack Montague realized this 
even as he spoke and he shoved his gun back into 
its holster and leaped with all of his agility upon 
the broad back of the real estate man, clutching 
the revolver arm at the wrist in a grip of iron 
and wrenching the hand upward. 

Owens quivered and staggered against the 
table at the shock, overturning a vase of roses 
Patty had brought in from the flower garden. 



n6 


The Round-Up 


He strove with all of his great strength to release 
his imprisoned hand. 

Anxious to disarm the man before Blaine could 
shoot, Jack recklessly released Owens with his 
other hand and jerked at the gun with both his 
fists. The weapon discharged twice, powder burns 
searing Jack’s cheek, so close had the weapon 
been. But he succeeded in jerking it free from 
Owens’ grip, and he tossed it into the fireplace 
by the side of Blaine just as the enraged realtor 
dealt him a terrible blow in the chest. 

He staggered back, gripped by a mighty pain, 
and the room swam before him. The figure of 
the realtor lurched and swayed grotesquely over 
him and a hairy paw clutched his throat. At that 
touch his brain cleared with a snap. Without 
attempting to free his throat from that awful 
hold, he swung a vicious blow at the elbow joint 
of Owens’ arm and, without releasing the finger 
hold, the realtor’s arm collapsed under the numb¬ 
ing pain that gripped it, unable to longer hold the 
young man at a distance. 

With a wheeze of delight Jack closed with his 
opponent and lifted him bodily with both arms 
and whirled quickly, bringing his own back toward 
the fireplace just as Blaine was raising his rifle. 

“Stop! You fools,” Jack called out hoarsely, 
straining away from the realtor, now that he stood 
between the two enemies. 

Owens dropped his numbed arm and Jack half- 
turned to face and soothe the farmer. The realtor 



A Peach Adjustment _ 117 

shifted his feet and swung with all of his power 
at the lean young jaw before him. The fact that 
young Montague was turning and withdrawing 
probably saved him a broken jaw. As it was, the 
glancing blow snapped his head back and parted 
the skin along his cheek like paper. 

He dropped to his knees, shaking his head 
dazedly, watching the blood drip to the carpet 
almost stupidly. Blaine uttered an oath and Jack 
looked idly up to see the fruit grower again rais¬ 
ing his weapon. He saw Patty’s white face, 
strained with fear, gazing at him, almost a flare 
of color against the darkness of the doorway be¬ 
hind her, pity written large in her features. Out 
of the tail of his eye he saw Owens diving toward 
his hip for his gun. Then something snapped 
in his brain. 

This brute, this ugly beast who had hit him 
from behind, had robbed the father of his rightful 
money and now sought to lay his filthy hands 
upon the girl — upon Jack’s girl. He had tried 
to bargain for her like a slave trader in the Orient. 
The colossal temerity of this fact struck home to 
the young ranchman and filled him with a shud¬ 
dering aversion. All of his vague dislike for this 
grizzled, silent man, who always kept his own 
counsel, crystallized into a burning hatred and a 
lust to kill. 

With a swift motion he jerked the six shooter 
from his holster and tossed it in the general direc¬ 
tion of Blaine. 



n8 


The Round-Up 


“Get it,” he commanded as he caught the de¬ 
scending man by the hair with his other hand. 

He twisted Owens’ head around, the weight of 
the falling realtor assisting in the maneuver. 
Deliberately he struck the man full between the 
eyes even as the clawing hands grabbed him. The 
realtor groaned under the blow and a knot puffed 
up quickly, half-closing his aching eyes. His 
clutching paws ripped the shirt off of the kneeling 
man, one vicious nail clawing a vivid gash down 
the other’s breast over the heart. 

The scarlet line before his crazed eyes brought 
a gleam of fury into the flint-like orbs of the 
realtor, and he reached up clawingly at his adver¬ 
sary’s face. 

The girl screamed again as she understood his 
fiendish thought, and she ran to her father’s side, 
beseeching him to do something. 

But Jack didn’t even feel the gash on his ex¬ 
posed chest. He was oblivious to the clawing 
fingers. By a herculean effort he staggered to 
his feet, lifting the two-hundred-pound realtor 
with him. Pushing the clawing maniac back from 
him he rocked the other cruelly with a blow to 
the side of the jaw. Owens shook his head like 
an angry bear. 

He was snarling now. He doubled his fists 
and for a brief moment they stood breast to 
breast slugging each other. Not possessing the 
moral stamina, Owens was the first to wince under 
the torture, and he clinched the wiry form before 



A Peach Adjustment 119 

him in a bear-like hug. 

Down they went, rolling all over the floor, the 
young rancher slugging away in a cold fury that 
the other’s strength could not check. The heavy 
realtor could not hold the bundle of steel which 
writhed in his arms. A sudden fear clutched his 
heart that he could not subdue this wildcat. 

He broke away and scrambled to his feet. 
Jack was up before him and met him with an¬ 
other blow between the eyes. Owens cried out 
and bore in blindly, arms swinging like flails. 

Stepping back a few inches, the flaming-eyed 
young rancher gaged his distance and stepped for¬ 
ward with a blow r to Owens’ chin that carried all 
of his strength and all of his weight behind it. 
The smack of the blow was like a pistol shot and 
the realtor halted in mid-stride. Then he seemed 
to turn a quick flip backwards, and Blaine could 
have sworn that his head hit the floor first. 

Jack’s arm flopped uselessly at his side. He 
had broken one of the bones in his wrist. Fie 
threw back his head and laughed exultantly, a 
wild laugh of new-found strength and driving 
force, a laugh that made the watching pair shiver 
in apprehension. Blaine had heard beasts of prey 
make noises in the same kind of voice, especially 
that puma that had killed a prize calf for him 
years ago. 

Patty ran to the wild-eyed young man’s side, 
beating against his naked chest with her clenched 
hands. 



120 


The Round-Up 


“ Stop that,” she cried firmly. “ Stop that hor¬ 
rible sound, Jack Montague. Do you hear me? 
Stop!” 

With his good arm he caught hold of her two 
wrists and held her off, eyeing her strangely, look¬ 
ing as though he had never seen her before. The 
fire in his gaze frightened her, stirred depths 
within her soul that startled her. She shrank 
back. Then he pulled her effortlessly up against 
him and encircled her with that muscular arm. 
Almost savagely he leaned down and bruised her 
lips with his kiss. 

She quivered under his rough caress and then 
some hidden fire burst into flame and she thrilled 
to his embrace, giving him back kiss for kiss. For 
a long moment they stood thus, in close embrace. 

Gradually the turmoil in Jack’s heart quieted 
and his breath began to come in less labored sobs. 
His face assumed its normal aspect except for a 
shining glint to his eyes, which had never been 
there before. 

“ Girl,” he cried. “ I love you. I love you, 
do you hear? You are mine. I’ve put my brand 
on you. Do you understand ? ” 

“Yes,” she nodded. “And you are mine, too,” 
she whispered fiercely. “Do you understand?” 

He smiled in boyish acknowledgment. 

“And you’ve got to stay out of trouble with 
that Jackson,” she declared firmly. “ He is a gun¬ 
man and he might kill you.” 

“Well, I’ll be damned!” uttered the fruit 



A Peach Adjustment 


121 


grower. “ Isn’t that a woman for you.” 

The man on the floor groaned slightly. Jack 
released himself from the girl and stumbled 
wearily over to the realtor’s side. 

“Water,” he commanded thickly, the after- 
math of the fight beginning to pull down on his 
own nerve centers. 

At the tone of his voice, Patty flew to the 
kitchen and returned with a bucket of cold, clear 
water which Jack took from her. 

“Shame to waste it,” he grunted as he dashed 
it, dipper by dipper, roughly into the unconscious 
man’s face. 

“Whiskey,” he called as Owens’ eyelids flut¬ 
tered. 

Blaine complied with a quart bottle and a glass. 

Rudely prying the realtor’s clenched teeth apart 
with his knife, the resuscitator poured a stiff jolt 
of the fiery liquid down the man’s throat. 

Owens’ heels drew up violently. He rolled 
over and groaned. 

“The affidavit and his own check,” commanded 
Jack. “ I’ll have him sitting up in just a minute.” 

Thus, when Owens struggled his painful way 
back to consciousness, half-blindness and a split¬ 
ting headache, he found himself propped in a 
chair at the table, his own wallet between his 
fingers. He stared bewilderedly down at his 
blood-stained fingers. Then memory came flood¬ 
ing back and he looked quickly up — into the 
black mouth of a .45 backed up by a smeared, 



122 


The Round-Up 


grinning face with twin devils for eyes, a face 
that he had difficulty in placing as young Mon¬ 
tague’s. 

“We find that you came prepared to talk 
money right now,” stated the young rancher 
slowly and distinctly. “That is fine and saves us 
the trouble of bothering with checks. Direct your 
befuddled gaze to the crisp, legal document be¬ 
fore you. It is an affidavit to the effect that you 
shipped nine carloads of extra fine peaches in 
place of four loads of culls. Read it if you 
care to.” 

Owens’ eyes flicked toward the ceiling. 

“All right, don’t read it then. Open your wal¬ 
let and count out twelve thousand, five hundred 
dollars in cash. Mr. Blaine will return to you 
your twenty-five hundred dollar check and fake 
bill of lading that lays before you also. This will 
still allow you more than you deserve as a com¬ 
mission. Get busy.” 

Owens did not move. He merely brought his 
eyes to bear on the speaker. 

“This is blackmail — robbery,” he finally mum¬ 
bled thickly. 

“Read the affidavit,” advised Jack in an omi¬ 
nously patient voice. 

The realtor did so. Then he wordlessly opened 
his wallet and counted out the correct amount de¬ 
manded. His head ached and he was deathly 
sick at the stomach. Hardly able to see he started 
to gather up the papers before him. 



A Peach Adjustment 


123 


“ Leave the affidavit,” drawled the hateful 
voice. “You don’t need it.” 

“This is a hold-up,” forced out Owens. “You 
keep this money and I’ll have a warrant out for 
you in an hour. Will make this most expensive 
robbery you ever perpetrated. Will not forget 
this.” 

“You’d better not,” declared Jack cheerfully. 
“And you will have no warrant out for any one 
of us — ever. You make one more crooked move 
like this and you will be through in Lebanon. 
I’ll see to that for you. And speaking of hold¬ 
ups, you’d better have Carruthers spend a little 
time on this gang of ruffians who are doing a little 
rustling and a lot of bank robbing if he wants to 
hold his job.” 

Owens swayed to his feet, his face an inscru¬ 
table mask for the emotions that stirred him. He 
didn’t glance at the fruit grower who was calmly 
counting the pile of greenbacks on the table. One 
burning glance he bestowed on the girl and then 
he stumbled to the door. 

Young Montague’s gun held the center of his 
back unwaveringly until he passed out of sight. 
Then a wave of dizziness swept over the victor 
and he lurched across the table in a dead faint. 



CHAPTER X 

MURDER ! 

T HAT the warning of Jack Montague 
seemed to have its effect upon the Owens 
administration was noticeable in the fact that the 
Blaines were unmolested and a series of placards 
were tacked upon fences, barns, and signposts 
throughout the county by early fall. 

The depredations of the bank robbers had 
grown in volume and cattle rustling now became 
a main issue as the steers began to put on their 
winter fat and become more valuable on the hoof. 

REWARD 

$1,000 reward for the capture of the des¬ 
perado who calls himself Nightbird or for in¬ 
formation leading to his apprehension. 

Signed: CARRUTHERS, SHERIFF, 

NEW COURT HOUSE. 

Two citizens of Lebanon turned from their 
perusal of the poster tacked at eye level on the 
side of the building before them and walked 
toward the foot of Main Street and toward the 
freight depot. 

It was morning — early morning, and the damp 
mistiness of a heavy fog hung in the autumnal 
atmosphere, billowing out from the river and set- 

124 


Murder! 


125 


ding in a vast cloud over the sleeping Mecca of 
hard drinking men. Despite its general south¬ 
easterly direction, at the point where Lebanon 
had been founded and had finally decided to con¬ 
tinue to exist the river ran north and south. 
Thus the railroad, paralleling the river, crossed 
the cast foot of the town at the lower end of the 
main street. 

The two men stepped upon the platform of the 
depot and found the freight house and ticket 
office closed. Impatiently they tried the door of 
the room which the railway company had fitted 
up for the housing of their local representative. 

“ C’mon, Myers/’ shouted one. “ Slide outa 
th’ covers an’ open th’ freight house. It’s after 
seven o’clock. ’Smatter with yuh?” 

“ I never knowed th’ old man to be so late,” 
suggested the other. “ Mebbe he’s already up an’ 
gone over to th’ Greasy Spoon for chow, Hal.” 

“ Mebbe. He’s alius open by seven, though. 
Here I gotta git some stuff uh th’ old woman’s 
orderin’ an’ that’s th’ very time he don’t open up 
prompt. Hi! Myers 1 ” 

“Shall we wait fer him?” 

“Guess we’ll have to. Mebbe he’s been out 
ridin* with Nightbird an’ ain’t got in yet.” 

They both guffawed at the suggestion of the 
mild little station agent being out with a gang of 
desperadoes. The second man stepped to the 
window and shaded his eyes a bit as he stared 
into the room. 



126 


The Round-Up 


“ It’s purty dark,” he muttered. “ Don’t see 
nothin’ shore enough. They ain’t no use waitin’. 
I bet he’s over to th’ eatin’ hou—— My Gawd! 
My Gawd, Hal!” 

At his awed tone of voice, the man called Hal 
jumped forward and joined his companion at the 
window. He stared until his eyes became accus¬ 
tomed to the gloom and then he saw. 

Myers, the station agent, lay stretched out on 
the floor on his back, still in his nightshirt, a sur¬ 
prised, hurt expression upon his querulous old 
face. His arms were outflung and a congealing, 
darkening little puddle heavily outlined one side 
of his torso and traced the curvature of the arm. 
The heavy iron safe in the far corner was open 
and the money drawers were hanging half out of 
their compartments, eloquently empty. 

With one accord the two men smashed the 
window pane and unlocked the sash. They clam¬ 
bered quickly into the room and knelt over the 
pathetic little figure on the floor. 

“ Deader’n a doornail,” stated Hal succinctly. 
“Pore ole Myers.” 

“They sure looted th’ express company’s safe,” 
commented the other. “One of us is gotta stay 
here an’ th’ other better git th’ sheriff an’ th’ 
constable.” 

“ I’ll go, Zeke,” exclaimed Hal quickly. “ Don’t 
let nobody in ’til we git back.” 

Hal rose to his feet and sprang to the door. 
Even as he turned the knob he remembered that 




Murder! 


127 


it was locked. He felt for the key. It was 
missing. He faced his companion and their eyes 
met in speculation. 

“It musta been somebody Myers knowed. 
Anyway, they got him to let ’em in. Winder 
locked on th’ inside — door locked from th’ out¬ 
side an’ th’ key missin’.” 

Zeke nodded in agreement and Hal ran to the 
window. Vaulting through, he nearly lit upon a 
skulking figure that was surprised by his sudden 
move. Startled though he himself was, Hal 
clutched at the newcomer with both hands and 
fell heavily with the stranger to the platform. 
At his companion’s startled cry, Zeke ran to the 
aperture and leaped out, narrowly missing the 
sprawled pair. 

“Who in hell are yuh?” grunted Hal to his 
captive. 

“ The underdog at present,” wheezed the pris¬ 
oner. “ Get up, brother, and let’s take stock.” 

The stranger proved to be a fairly young man, 
dark of hair and eyes, of pleasing and alert coun¬ 
tenance but dirty, ragged and begrimed from 
indulging in the railroad tramp’s means of trans¬ 
portation— “riding the rods.” 

“Where’d yuh come from?” growled Zeke 
suspiciously. 

“ I was kicked off a freight train last night by 
an irate brakeman,” explained the captive pleas¬ 
antly. “ My name is McQuirey, unmarried, age 
twenty-nine, height five feet nine inches, weight 



123 


The Round-Up 


one hundred and sixty-two pounds. I’m broke, 
out of a job and hungry. What did you say is 
your name?” 

“HumphI” snorted Hal. “How d’yuh hap¬ 
pen to be hangin’ round here?” 

“Ah, my dear friend, I have just answered that 
question,” replied McQuirey easily. “ Really, I 
forestalled you there.” 

“Yuh was peerin’ in th’ winder an’ yuh wasn’t 
makin’ no big amount uh noise,” accused Zeke. 
“Can yuh explain that?” 

“I must protest. This isn’t fair,” objected 
McQuirey. “You are showering me with ques¬ 
tions. I can’t slip a query in edgeways. Why not 
answer a few things for me? Who is the dead 
man in there?” 

“Howdcha know he’s dead?” demanded Hal 
quickly. 

“There you go again,” remonstrated the tramp 
with a gesture of impatience. “Now try and get 
this, do. I know that he is dead because I heard 
one of you say so. Also, his name is Myers and 
the express company’s safe has been robbed. 
Further than this, one of you answers to the name 
of Zeke and has an annoying habit of sucking 
his breath through his teeth. Now, can you do 
a little talking without sticking question marks at 
the end of every thing you say? You have no 
idea how monotonous that becomes. Tell me, just 
who was Myers? The express agent?” 

“He was,” flung Zeke, grudgingly. “An’ th’ 



Murder! 


129 


station agent, too. He lived here in this room 
at th’ station. Hal, hunt up th’ sheriff. I’ll en¬ 
tertain our li’l visitor ’til yuh come back.” 

As Hal started toward Main Street on a run, 
Zeke produced an efficient looking six-shooter and 
poked it menacingly into McQuirey’s ribs. 

“ Climb in th’ room right keerful, yuh with th’ 
wabbly jaw,” he commanded. “ My trigger finger 
shore is itchy.” 

“ I observe that my personal observation got 
under the skin,” smiled the tramp winningly. “ I 
withdraw the dentistry comment. You are one of 
the most persuasive men I ever met. I simply 
can’t refuse you.” 

He obediently climbed into the room and stood 
very quietly while awaiting the return of the sec¬ 
ond man. But his eyes began with the body of 
the murdered man on the floor and took in every 
detail of the littered quarters of the old station 
agent. 

Hal shortly returned with no less a personage 
than Sheriff Carruthers himself. The two men 
clambered in through the window and the pilose 
individual glared about fiercely. McQuirey stared 
aghast at the luxurious growth of whiskers the 
sheriff boasted. 

“Dead?” asked Carruthers. 

Zeke nodded in confirmation. 

“D’yuh touch anything?” 

“Nope. Nothin’. Hal went fer yuh right 
away.” 



130 


The Round-Up 


“Kee— rect,” approved the sheriff, stroking 
his beard with a military snap and precision. 
“Who’s this?” 

“Sez his name is McQuirey. We caught him 
lookin’ in th’ winder.” 

“Uh huh,” intoned Sheriff Carruthers very 
wisely. “Where’d yuh come from, young fel¬ 
ler?” he asked uglily. 

“Nowhere in particular, Mister,” McQuirey 
spoke respectfully. “ I was merely traveling for 
my health and I missed connections with my train 
here last night.” 

“Sheriff, not Mister,” snapped Carruthers. 
“What time last night?” 

The tramp’s eyes widened a trifle and then nar¬ 
rowed at the other’s tone. 

“ It was that freight train,” he drawled. “ I 
don’t know the exact time as I had given my plat¬ 
inum watch to the engineer. He needed it, I’ll 
assure you. I’ll bet he wasn’t more than a week 
behind time.” 

“Huuummmm,” mumbled the sheriff in his 
beard, giving the begrimed figure before him a 
searching look. “’Bout ten o’clock I reckon. 
Search him, Zeke.” 

The traveler proved to be the possessor of two 
safety pins — one of them in use, one black button 
which belonged where the pin was now working, 
a few dirty looking matches, a soiled bandana and 
half a sack of smoking tobacco. He was destitute 
of coin, papers or weapon. 



Murder! 


Ill 

“ Be very careful of my tobacco case, please/’ 
cautioned McQuirey anxiously. “ I have no more 
of my specially prepared blend at hand. By the 
way, I wouldn’t mind having a smoke. Have one 
of you gentlemen a cigarette paper? I used my 
very last one to clean my diamond stud. How 
utterly thoughtless of me.” 

“ Don’t git so funny,” advised Hal grimly. 
“This here’s uh case uh murder an’ it looks bad 
fer yuh.” 

“ You can’t be serious,” rejoined the tramp, sur¬ 
prised. “How can I be implicated? I have no 
weapon and if I knew anything about this matter, 
do you think I’d be hanging around here?” 

“ Kee — rect,” agreed the frowning sheriff 
sagely, making a neat slide with his hand upon 
his hairy appendage. He quickly grasped the 
logic of the vagabond’s reasoning. “ He ain’t got 
no knife on him an’ his pockets don’t show no sag 
or wear that uh knife ’ud make.” 

“Knife?” asked Zeke and Hal together. 

“ Yep, knife. Myers was stabbed to death with 
uh knife.” 

“How do you know that?” demanded 
McQuirey keenly. “ You haven’t looked the body 
over.” 

A peculiar gleam came into the sheriff’s eyes as 
he glanced quickly at the ragged questioner. He 
twisted his beard into a veritable Gordian knot 
before he replied. Then: 

“Yuh don’t see no bullet holes, do yuh? Didja 



132 


The Round-Up 


ever see that much blood from uh pistol shoot? 
Besides, uh shot ’ud of been heard. Turn him 
over, Hal. I betcha they’s uh knife wound in his 
back. See there — that slit in his nightshirt under 
his left shoulder blade? What did I tell yuh?” 
he concluded triumphantly. 

“Gosh!” exclaimed the awestruck Hal. “It 
looks like it was uh pocket knife, too.” 

“You win, Mister Sheriff,” agreed McQuirey 
admiringly. “Aren’t you the cute little trick? I 
have no doubt you have already deduced that it 
was a complete surprise attack, judging from the 
look of startled amazement on the murdered 
man’s face and the absence of any appearance of 
a struggle.” 

“Kee — rect,” agreed Carruthers promptly, 
polishing his whiskers briskly. 

“ Further than that,” went on McQuirey, “ I’ll 
venture to say that you have already surmised that 
the murderer was someone Myers knew pretty 
well — or thought he knew, because the safe has 
been opened by one who knew the combination. 
You can see very readily that it was not blown 
open. Evidently Myers opened the safe himself 
for his slayer, and received a knife-thrust in the 
back for his pains. Now, why would or should 
Mr. Myers open the express safe after office 
hours? Somebody deceived the poor old man. 
All right. How? By having a dummy package 
of some kind in the safe. He came to the old 
man in the night, with his legal receipt for his 



Murder I 


133 


package, told how urgent it was for him to get 
the package and prevailed on the old man to break 
a rule and open the safe. Therefore it was some¬ 
one Myers knew well enough to trust. Either 
that, or a messenger from the owner of the pack¬ 
age, a messenger with written authority asking 
Myers to let the package go. The thing to do is 
to make a list of all packages received the past 
ten days and trace each and every one of them 
down. Isn’t that just what you’ve mapped out 
as a basis to work from, Sheriff?” 

“ Kee—kee — rect,” stammered Carruthers, 
almost missing his customary beard stroke. The 
keen mind of the other and his clever analysis 
were carrying the worthy sheriff slightly beyond 
his depth. Then, too, this fellow seemed awfully 
smart for a mere hobo. 

The two men, Zeke and Hal, uttered exclama¬ 
tions of wonder as the likeliness of the tramp’s 
suggestions appealed to them. They granted him 
a tithe more of respect and this was not lost on 
the frowning Carruthers. 

“Humph!” he grunted. “Yuh’re purty quick 
at followin’ my idees, young feller. Yuh’re kinda 
smart. That’ll do fer yuh. I reckon I’ll be 
holdin’ yuh for further investigation.” 

“That was uh good idee, Sheriff,” spoke up 
Hal. “ Let’s look through th’ safe. They 
mighta left somethin’.” And he turned to suit 
the action to the words. 

“Hey!” yelped the sheriff. “Don’t yuh touch 



134 


The Round-Up 


nothin’. I’ll do th’ lookin’ when I git back, an’ 
I’ll look good an’ plenty too. In th’ name uh 
th’ law I ’points both yuh boys as deputies to stay 
here an’ let nobody in ’til I git back. C’mon, 
young feller, we better mosey on up to th’ court¬ 
house an’ then over to th’ jail fer uh spell.” 

“Well, I’ll be damned,” ejaculated McQuirey, 
his eyes widening in hurt surprise. “ That’s grati¬ 
tude for you.” 

“What d’yuh mean?” growled Carruthers 
suspiciously. 

“Oh, nothing. You wouldn’t understand. 
Come on. Let’s go. If I must be received by a 
gaily caparisoned committee I had just as soon 
register at the city hotel as any other. It won’t 
be the first time we’ve been in jail, eh, Lord 
Hairy?” 

“Brrrr—grrrrif,” rejoined Carruthers angrily 
through his pilose thatch. 



CHAPTER XI 

A BONDED VAGABOND 

C OURT was in session in the new two-storied 
municipal and county building and Judge 
Ryan was on the bench. Judge Michael Ryan 
was originally a product of the “auld sod” 
but he had been transplanted at a very tender 
age and had taken root and thrived in the fertile 
valleys and sagebrush-covered plains of the 
western United States. Somehow he had wan¬ 
dered into Lebanon when the town was in 
its infancy and he had remained. Whether he 
had foreseen the future of the place or whether 
the idea of one saloon to each of the other busi¬ 
ness enterprises appealed, it is hard to say. 

The judge was a massive man, heavy and red 
of feature, clean shaven and with a thatch of fiery 
; hair in which the silver was beginning to show. 

[ His knowledge of law did not embrace memory 
quotations from Blackstone or from the various 
; statutes; rather, it was crude but effective. He 
had a fair grounding in legality and a fair sense 
of humor. Thus, he tempered law with justice, 
which was fortunate for all culprits as he was the 
supreme legal authority in Lebanon. 

This morning he was in rather a touchy mood. 
His coffee had been cold, his pipe clogged up and 
i35 



136 


The Round-Up 


the docket of the city court was filled with irritat¬ 
ing liquor charges. 

“Next case,” he called irascibly, striking his 
battered, high desk with his gavel and dexterously 
shooting a stream of his favorite “chewin’ an’ 
spittin’ ” at the court cuspidor for a bull’s-eye. 

“Owens’ Bright Star accused of seilin’ whiskey 
on Sunday,” droned the melancholy-faced clerk at 
his side. 

“ Horsehead Owens,” snapped the judge. 
“Ye’re charged wid seilin’ booze on th’ Sabbath. 
I’ve warned ye onct before. Guilty or not 
guilty?” 

“Not guilty, your honor,” clipped the angry 
realtor, arising from a front seat and folding his 
arms. “Want these fool constables to-” 

“What’s that?” the judge gurgled. 

“ Said ‘ Not guilty.’ Want fool consta-” 

“ Court’s adjourned,” interrupted Judge Ryan, 
an ominous frown gathering upon his brow. 
“ Horsehead, ye’re a domn liar by th’ clock. I’ve 
bought it from ye meself. Court’s in session. 
Mister Owens, due to sub rosa evidence which 
cannot be ignored th’ court finds ye guilty. Fine, 
fifty dollars. An’ ye want to stop that Sunday 
business. Pay th’ clerk here an’ shut up. Next 
case.” 

“John Doe,” read the clerk. “Charged with 
the three D’s.” 

“John Doe,” rapped out the judge. “Th’ 
last time I saw yer name ’twas on a promissory 




A Bonded Vagabond 


137 


note. Let’s have a peep at yer face.” 

A bleary looking figure arose and eyed the man 
with the gavel, doubtfully. 

“Ah ha ! John Doe! Sure an’ if I’m not mis¬ 
taken ye was here last week under an alias. ’Twas 
Harry Taylor I believe. Ye’re charged wid th’ 
same offence too — dirty, drunk an’ disorderly. 
My, my, what a queer coincidence. What have 
ye to say?” 

“Not guilty, please your honor,” quavered the 
drunkard. 

“ ’Twas th’ same original excuse ye had last 
week. Ain’t ye proud o’ yer strikin’ pleas?” said 
the judge sarcastically. “ Fine, ten dollars. An’ 
next week it’ll be ten days in th’ jug, mind ye. 
Next.” 

“ Tim Kelly,” droned the clerk. “ Charged 
with wife beatin’ an’ disturbin’ th’ peace.” 

“Who prefers th’ charge?” inquired Ryan in 
the manner of one going through an accustomed 
ritual. 

“Mrs. Tim Kelly,” replied the bored clerk. 

Ryan looked inquiringly down at a wizened, 
under-sized man who stared back belligerently out 
of a pair of beautifully blackened eyes. The 
judge’s own twinkled. 

“Tim,” he said reprovingly, “ye’re charged 
wid disturbin’ th’ peace by beatin’ up that poor 
little two hundred pound wife o’ yers. Guilty 
or not guilty? ” 

“Oi guiss Oi’m guilty, yer honor,” responded 



138 


The Round-Up 


the culprit with an air of unrepentance. “ Sure 
an’ Oi knocked th’ breath from th’ auld gal afore 
she laid me out this toime.” 

There was a roar of approval at the little Irish¬ 
man’s statement, for the whole of Lebanon was 
interested in the matrimonial venture of fiery little 
Tim Kelly and his equally fiery and dominant 
spouse who, it was said, had married Tim when 
he was considerably under the influence of one 
Bacchus. 

“Is Mrs. Kelly present?” inquired the judge. 
“No? Th’ case is dismissed. Ye’re improving 
Tim,” he chuckled. “Here’s a dollar. Go out 
an’ take a big wan on me. Next.” 

“Steve Bleeker, cowpuncher. Three D’s,” in¬ 
toned the clerk. 

The judge singled out the victim and spoke. 

“All right, Steve. Stand up an’ make yer little 
speech.” 

“I guess I’m guilty, yore honor,” grinned a 
lanky puncher, having noted the efficacy of Tim 
Kelly’s plea and deciding to try the same racket 

“Ye’re domn whistlin’ ye’re guilty,” snapped 
Ryan, and the cowboy’s grin faded into a foolish 
smile. “ I saw ye last night when ye was gettin’ 
all tuned up. Fine, five dollars. An’ listen to me 
onct, Steve Bleeker. Ye b’ys’ll have to start usin’ 
blank ca’tridges if ye can’t stay sober. Next.” 

Suddenly there was a commotion at the door. 
An over-mellow voice was querulously arguing 
and pleading eloquently with some inexorable 



A Bonded Vagabond 


i39 


executioner of the law. 

“ Silence! Order! Silence! ” roared the judge 
fiercely. “What brings ye off th’ strates, Pink 
Sills?” 

“ Please, yore honor,” the constable replied, 
u this drunk insisted on throwin’ his hat out in th’ 
mud on Main Street an’ then rollin’ off th’ side¬ 
walk after it. He looks uh fright an’ he smells 
worse.” 

“Halt!” thundered Ryan in genuine alarm. 
“Don’t ye dare bring anything th’ likes o’ that 
into this clane, dacent courtroom. Have ye no 
respect for th’ law? We’ll try th’ prisoner in th’ 
strate.” 

He rose and strode to the door. He looked 
scornfully at the bedraggled but highly dignified 
and insulted wreck in the grip of the constable. 

“Yuh — hie — know, shudge, uh rollin’ stone 
gashers no — hie — no moss,” wagged the inebri¬ 
ated one, wisely. “’Sfact. ’Swhat I tried — hie 
— to-” 

“ But ye’ve accumulated plenty o’ soil,” inter¬ 
rupted the judge bitingly. “ So ye’re guilty o’ 
bein’ drunk an’ rapidly gettin’ dirty an’ disorderly, 
ye spalpeen? Shut up. Don’t interrupt th’ judge. 
What d’ye mean by tryin’ to swim in thot domned 
cesspool they call Main Street? I fine meself ten 
dollars for disrespect to our fair city. Fine re¬ 
mitted. I say, what d’ye mean? Niver mind yer 
explanation. That bit o’ festive sportin’ will be 
costin’ ye ten dollars, me lad, an’ they won’t be 




140 


The Round-Up 


no remittin’, Throw him in a horse-trough, Pink. 
’Twill clane him an’ sober him at wan an’ th’ same 
time. Nex — What th’ hill’s broke loose now? 
Here comes th’ sheriff wid a prisoner. What’s 
wrong, sheriff?” 

“ Lots,” stated the newly arrived Carruthers 
quickly. “ Myers has been killed an’ th’ safe 
robbed. This here feller was hangin’ round an’ 
he was purty slick with his tongue so I brung him 
in fer investigation.” 

“ Myers has been killed?” exclaimed the judge. 
“Th’ station agent? Silence in th’ courtroom, 
ye loafers,” he roared at the noisy crowd. “Go 
on an’ talk, Carruthers. I’m listenin’.” 

Ryan studied the prisoner attentively while the 
sheriff quickly gave in his hastily acquired evi¬ 
dence. 

“An’ what have ye to offer, young man?” the 
judge asked gravely after the officer concluded. 

“Nothing of interest,” smiled McQuirey. “I 
am not guilty, your honor.” 

“Uuumm — perhaps not. That’s all I’ve been 
hearin’ all mornin’. However ye can readily see 
that it looks black enough for ye at present. I’m 
thinkin’ we’ll be havin’ to lock ye up until there 
is further developments in th’ matter.” 

“ Kee — rect,” endorsed Carruthers, making his 
beard crackle with electricity by the speed of his 
stroking hand. “Let T s go over to th’ jail, young 
feller. I gotta git back to th’ station.” 

“Your honor,” said the prisoner appealingly, 



A Bonded Vagabond 141 

“ May I not stay in your court under guard until 
the sheriff returns? I assure you that I am in¬ 
nocent and I am certain that he will find something 
to prove it. Why, even the sheriff thinks I am 
guiltless if he will but admit it.” 

But Carruthers twisted his beard into a point 
and tickled the palm of one hand with it non¬ 
committally. 

“What’s yer name again?” queried Ryan not 
unkindly. 

“ McQuirey, sir. Joseph McQuirey, a home¬ 
less cowboy who needs a job.” 

“ McQuirey, eh? Another wan o’ them French 
names. Well, I like yer looks, McQuirey — that 
is, what I can see o’ ye. Run along, Sheriff, an’ 
continue yer investigation. Ye’ll see Pink Sills 
out by th’ horse-trough. Send him in to guard th’ 
prisoner. Next.” 

The docket was finally cleared and the regular 
habitues of the morning courts were unwillingly 
dragging themselves away when the sheriff re¬ 
turned. At the look of triumphant satisfaction 
upon the visible portion of his face, the loafers 
made as if to stay. 

“ Be off wid ye,” waved Ryan. “ Pink, clear 
th’ room an’ ye may return to yer duty on th’ 
strates. McQuirey, come into me office in th’ 
adjournin’ room. Now what, Sheriff?” 

Carruthers very dramatically placed a parcel 
drawn from his pocket upon the table and un¬ 
wrapped it. A blood-stained handkerchief was 



142 


The Round-Up 


exposed to view. Slowly he unfolded it before 
the interested eyes of Ryan and McQuirey. An 
open knife, stained with blood, of long and keen 
blade of the type known as a “ crabapple switch ” 
lay before them. Cut in the stag handle were the 
two initials “J. M.” 

“ I found this here knife in one uh th’ empty 
drawers in th’ safe,” stated the sheriff. “Th’ 
murderer must of left it in his hurry. Now who 
’round Lebanon knowed Myers well enough to git 
in an’ that carried uh knife like this?” 

“Have ye any idea yeself?” demanded Ryan 
bluntly. 

The sheriff smiled affirmatively. 

“Then you followed up the idea of a dummy 
package in the safe?” put in McQuirey quickly. 

Carruthers turned on his questioner, a wolf- 
iike expression in his face. 

“Yes, I did,” he snarled. “It wasted uh good 
half hour uh my time. They wasn’t nothin’ there. 
Th’ murderer jes’ knowed Myers well enough to 
git in ’thout no excuse. That’s all they is to it an’ 
yuh’ll do well to keep yore trap closed.” 

“Ye Gods!” McQuirey flung up his hands in 
a tragic gesture of despair. “ Bungled in the first 
inning.” 

Carruthers’ angry retort was prevented by the 
opening of the door. An ordinary looking man 
with pale blue eyes entered, closing the door be¬ 
hind him. A deputy’s star was pinned to his 
suspenders. 



A Bonded Vagabond 


143 


“ Mornin’, Judge. Mornin’, Sheriff,” he mur¬ 
mured. “ I jes’ got in from lookin’ over th’ bank 
at Weston. Nightbird agin. What’s all this 
’bout murderin’ th’ station agent?” 

“Kee — rect,” nodded the sheriff. “I left 
word for yuh to run down an’ take charge at th’ 
depot as soon as yuh come in. Lemme tell yuh 
’bout it, Higgs, an’ then yuh better run along.” 

Rapidly the sheriff outlined matters to his 
deputy and brought his story up to the discovery 
of the knife. Higgs’ eyes bulged and he stared 
from the tramp back to the knife. Suddenly a 
flash of recollection entered his pale eyes and he 
emitted a long soft whistle, elevating his eyebrows 
knowingly. 

‘‘By gosh, I seen uh knife — that very knife in 
Jack Montague’s possession last week,” he stated. 
“He was standin’ in front uh th’ bank an’ was 
cuttin’ uh piece uh plug tobaccy offa one puncher’s 
plug fer another one.” 

“Kee — rect,” endorsed Carruthers, fairly jerk¬ 
ing his beard out perpendicular to his body. “ J. 
M. Jack Montague. An’ I seen th’ same knife in 
th’ possession of th’ same party in my office not 
three months ago.” 

“Kee — nawthin’,” snorted the irate but sud¬ 
denly apprehensive judge. “That’s plumb ridic¬ 
ulous. Where’s yer motive? Jack’s a rich young 
man. Don’t be makin’ an ass o’ yerself, Car¬ 
ruthers.” 

“ I ain’t right sure ’bout uh motive,” the sheriff 



144 


The Round-Up 


shook his head stubbornly, “ but I know this here 
is young Montague’s knife. So I gotta do my 
duty, Jedge,” he concluded heavily. 

Judge Ryan cocked his head at the officer like 
an inquisitive bull. “Hill’s bills, how zealous 
ye’ve become overnight. Ye better be watchin’ 
yer tracks, me b’y. Old man Montague ain’t wan 
to be trifled wid. An’ young Jack is kinda 
uh complete box o’ tricks himself. If ye want 
somethin’ easy, go out an’ find this here raidin’ 
Nightbird.” 

“Anyhow, I guess this acquits me,” suggested 
McQuirey gently. “ Do you mind if I withdraw? 
I haven’t had any breakfast and it’s nearly noon.” 

“ I guess yuh can go,” said Carruthers grudg¬ 
ingly. 

“Hill’s bills, ,r the judge roared. “Acquits ye? 
Wid yer name Joe McQuirey — wid yer initials 
J. M. — wid ye hangin’ ’round th’ station? I 
reckon not, me laddie buck. Into th’ jug wid ye. 
What’s th’ matter wid ye, Carruthers?” 

“ Kee — rect, kee — rect,” saluted the sheriff in 
some confusion, and the smile he turned on the 
luckless vagabond was filled with impish delight. 
“Yuh first, Silence, an’ then fer young Mon¬ 
tague.” 

“Judge Ryan,” wailed the newly named Mc¬ 
Quirey. “You are not going to let Santa Claus 
lock me up in the cold, damp and unsympathetic 
jail with no recourse whatever, are you? Oh 
Lord — my gosh — is there no help for a boot- 



A Bonded Vagabond 


H5 


legger’s son? Surely this is not justice.” 

Judge Ryan eyed the suspect queerly. Despite 
his resolution to protect Jack Montague whom he 
was sure was innocent, he forced himself to con¬ 
sider the case of the homeless tramp. The man, 
in all probability, was innocent. But the matter 
looked very bad. McQuirey’s was an unenviable 
position. 

“Well,” stated his honor, “due to lack of suf¬ 
ficient damning evidence an’ incriminatin’ wit¬ 
nesses I fix th’ bond o’ Joseph McQuirey at — 
ten thousand dollars. Sure, an’ that’s as fair as 
I can be, me b’y. Ye’d be doin’ th’ same thing 
under th’ circumstances, so don’t be eyein’ me so 
reproachfully. Lock him up, Higgs. Feed him 
an’ let him see anywan he wants for a bondsman.” 

“ I suppose you are right,” murmured Mc¬ 
Quirey almost wearily. “ I am at your service, 
Mr. Higgs.” 

The afternoon shadows were lengthening when 
a gaunt, tanned stranger carrying a battered, 
sawed-off but highly effective looking shotgun 
tucked under his arm rode up to the courthouse 
and sought out the sheriff’s office. 

Carruthers was out but Deputy Sheriff Higgs 
laid aside a well-thumbed volume entitled “ How 
to Detect” and looked calmly and condescend¬ 
ingly upon the rawboned visitor. 

“ Howdy,” said the stranger pleasantly. “Are 
yuh th’ sheriff?” 



146 


The Round-Up 


“Nope. Deputy. What’s eatin’ yuh?” 

“Where is th’ sheriff hisself?” mildly inquired 
the newcomer. 

“Out.” 

“ Do yuh entertain any idea as to when he’ll 
prob’bly come back?” 

“Nope. Won’t I do?” 

“Yuh will. Can’t wait,” jerked the stranger, 
purposely imitating the abrupt speech of the 
deputy. “Yuh’ve uh prisoner—McQuirey by 
name — suspected uh murder?” 

“We has,” admitted the deputy, frowning in a 
most legal manner and fixing his visitor with an 
inquisitive stare. 

“ His bond is set at ten thousand dollars ? ” pur¬ 
sued the stranger calmly. 

“She is,” informed the officer precisely. 

“Cash?” 

“ Uh huh,” agreed Higgs, yawning boredly, as 
though ten thousand was a very trifling sum to 
force him to consider. 

“Waal, I’ve come to put up th’ money,” stated 
the stranger casually and he drew a great roll of 
bills from his pocket. 

Deputy Higgs’ yawn ended so abruptly that he 
bit his tongue. With popping eyes he watched 
the lean hands begin to count out fifty-dollar bills 
onto the table. 

“Wait uh minute —wait uh minute” gasped 
the staggered deputy as soon as he recovered his 
voice. 



A Bonded Vagabond 


147 


“What’s th’ matter?” asked the surprised 
stranger. “ These here bills is good.” 

“Nothin’ like this ever happened to me be¬ 
fore,” admitted the deputy frankly. “I dunno 
what to do.” 

“Yuh ain’t got no choice,” rejoined the gaunt 
stranger coldly. “ I puts up th’ required bond an’ 
yuh turn McQuirey loose — right now.” 

“But — but I dunno how,” wailed Mister 
Higgs. “Hoi’ on while I git th’ jedge.” 

He bolted for the door opening upon the cor¬ 
ridor and the stranger sat down stoically, his gun 
across his lap, leaving the pile of greenbacks upon 
the table before him. 

Judge Ryan proved to be as surprised as the 
astounded deputy but he proceeded to arrange 
matters satisfactorily. 

“ Yer name an’ address, please?” he demanded 
as he prepared to give receipt for the bond. 

“ Jed Martin. Jes’ put down general delivery 
at Lebanon. I jes’ come from beyond th’ Cana¬ 
dian th’ other day. I ain’t got no permanent ad¬ 
dress yit. Reckon I will have though ’cause I’m 
figurin’ on stayin’ quite uh spell.” 

Judge Ryan wrote steadily. “ I see. Now, 
there has been no date set for this murder case 
an’ so ye better keep in touch wid me, Mister 
Martin, an’ so had McQuirey. Ye ever been 
in these parts before?” 

“Naw, sir,” rejoined the stranger. 

“Ye are a relation o’ th’ accused?” 



148 


The Round-Up 


“No relation,” returned Martin noncommit¬ 
tally. “I can depend on yuh turnin’ McQuirey 
loose right now, can I?” 

“Ye can take him wid ye,” replied the dis¬ 
gruntled judge shortly as he offered Martin the 
receipt “Higgs, go an’ bring in McQuirey. Ye 
can leave together, Mister Martin.” 

“’Tain’t necessary,” rejoined the bondsman 
serenely. “I’ll be goin’ now. Evenin’.” 

“But—but don’t ye want to see yer friend 
again?” 

“Nope. ’Tain’t necessary. Evenin’. An’ 
thanks.” 

Wordlessly the judge waved Deputy Higgs 
after the released McQuirey as he watched the 
lanky form of Martin stride away, tenderly nurs¬ 
ing his battered old gun. 

When the vagabond stood before him, he 
studied the still begrimed figure for a full moment 
before he spoke. He scratched his head reflec¬ 
tively and squinted one speculative eye at the 
tramp. 

“ Sure an’ I don’t understand all I know about 
ye, me b’y,” he finally grunted. “Ye are wan 
divil of a fast worker. How did ye talk thot lanky 
mountaineer out of sufficient money to bond ye in 
cash?” 

“I beg your pardon?” murmured McQuirey 
politely. 

“Ye heard me,” returned the judge heavily. “ I 
was just wonderin’ where yer friend Martin raised 



A Bonded Vagabond 


149 


th’ necessary coin to bond ye.” 

“ I have no friend by the name of Martin,” was 
the surprising answer of the tramp. 

“ D’ye mean to be standin’ here before me an’ 
say in’ that ye don’t know who bonded ye?” thun¬ 
dered the judge. 

U I haven’t seen a soul but the jailer since you 
detained me this morning — and I observed that 
he needed a bath worse than I do. I don’t know a 
single person in Lebanon — or a married one 
either. I haven’t the slightest idea what you are 
talking about although I gather that I have been 
bonded. Is this true?” 

The judge was beyond coherent speech. He 
could only point to the pile of greenbacks which 
still adorned the table. 

“ Fine,” said McQuirey briskly. “ I always 
knew I was worth ten thousand dollars but I never 
knew there lived another person who agreed with 
me on this point. I take it that I am now free 
from durance vile. Let me thank you for your 
various courtesies, gentlemen. Perhaps you can 
tell me if any ranch around here needs an expert 
cowhand for the fall round-up? No? Very well, 
I will make a personal investigation. I’ll give you 
my address as soon as I locate, Judge. Good 
afternoon. Give my regrets to Santa Claus.” 

“Now what th’ hill d’ye know about that?” 
choked Judge Ryan as soon as speech was restored 
to him. Almost angrily he watched the slender 
form of the erstwhile prisoner stroll as noncha- 



150 


The Round-Up 


lantly down the street as though his dirty rags had 
been velvet and silk. 

“A man puts up ten thousand dollars cash for 
a single tramp,” continued the old Irishman. “ He 
rides away wid out seem* th’ man he’s bondin’, 
not even onct. An’ th’ prisoner denies all acquaint¬ 
ance wid his bondsman an’ takes it just as calmly 
as a two-finger drink. Now what th’ hill does a 
body know about this?” 

But Mister Higgs could offer no solution to 
the perplexity. 

Sheriff Carruthers came in and mopped his brow 
with a sweaty handkerchief. 

“ It’s gonna rain again,” he offered by way of 
conversation. “When it gits as close an’ 
sultry-” 

He broke off as he caught sight of the currency 
on the table. 

“My gosh!” he gasped. “Who done robbed 
who, now?” 

“Did ye go out after Jack Montague?” in¬ 
quired Judge Ryan ominously. 

“Notyit. I dunno what to do ’bout that,” mut¬ 
tered Carruthers uneasily. “ But where’d this 
money come from?” 

They acquainted him with the details. The 
sheriff clutched his beard and worried it fiercely. 
Twice he had Higgs describe the bondsman while 
Ryan mused to himself. 

“Jed Martin — general delivery — Canadian 
River — ten thousand dollars — Jed Martin — 




A Bonded Vagabond _ 151 

Jed, Jed,” muttered the judge. “Jed Martin. 
J. M.— Rejabbers!” he shoulted aloud so sud¬ 
denly that the sheriff and his deputy jumped. 

“ Listen onct,” commanded the legal authority 
earnestly. “This matter is gettin’ more serious 
than ye b’ys realize. Carruthers, why should a 
stranger bond a stranger wid out a good reason? 
An* consider this bondsman’s name, would ye. 
Jed Martin. There’s yer J. M. again. Now 
what d’ye make o’ that?” 

“ Yuh oughta grabbed him,” growled Carruth¬ 
ers viciously. 

“Grabbed him?” snorted the judge. “An’ 
upon what grounds, me b’y? Just because his in¬ 
itials are J. M. To be truthful I didn’t notice 
that. But I couldn’t refuse to take his money an’ 
let that McQuirey go. ’Twould have been uncon¬ 
stitutional. Ye talk like an ass, Carruthers.” 

The worthy sheriff clawed at his beard. The in¬ 
itials “J. M.” seemed to be whirling all about 
him, threatening his reason. He worried his ap¬ 
pendage feverishly. He felt the need of advice, 
of superior advice — of immediate advice. 





CHAPTER XII 


TARGET PRACTICE AND LAME HORSES 
HE pleasing aroma of strong coffee and 



X crisp bacon surrounded the DZX chuck-house 
and Sing Li came to the door and set up a hideous 
clamor on the evening air with his battered old 
cow-bell. The dusty looking stranger grinned ap¬ 
preciatively over his shoulder and continued on 
his way to the bunk-house. 

Peering in, he saw two punchers seated on the 
floor drawing on new and fancy boots. One was 
a blond, a curly-haired fellow with a wide smiling 
mouth. The other was a brown-haired individual 
with laughing, dancing eyes. They both looked 
capable. Other than these two the long room was 
empty, the bunks vacant. 

“ Howdy,” grinned the newcomer. 

“Hullo,” responded both punchers promptly. 
“Yuh’re jes’ in time for chow,” continued the 
curly-haired one. “Wash up out there at th’ 
bench. Dang these here tight boots, anyhow,” he 
grunted. “Frank, I jes’ know these here shoes is 
yourn. Yuh got mine.” 

“Hurry, stranger,” added Frank to the 
stranger. “They’s twenty-seven hungry hyenas 
runnin’ towards that bell right now from all direc¬ 
tions. We gotta move ’cause they won’t be 


Target Practice and Lame Horses 153 

nothin’ left. Yuh had ought of poured uh li’l 
vaseline in them gloves, Curly. They’d slide on 
easier. That’s what yuh git for tryin’ to stop th’ 
natural expanse uh yore stirrup pushers.” 

The dusty newcomer smiled pleasantly and 
turned to wash his face and hands. 

“You boys going sparking this evening? Those 
boots would so indicate.” 

“Nope,” replied Curly. “We’re jes’ goin’ to 
town.” 

The stranger’s eyebrows raised behind the 
towel. 

“I believe I’m going to like it here,” he said 
at length. “ Do you need any horse and cow 
artists around here?” 

“We got several specialists,” said Frank seri¬ 
ously, “but they might be room for one more.” 

“Who owns this ranch?” 

“ Bill Montague,” stated both punchers, eyeing 
in surprise the man who dared ask such an obvious 
question. 

“ Is he a hard man to work for? Does his help 
all like him?” 

“ Most of th’ work is under th’ eyes uh his son 
Jack and th’ foreman Jim Harrison.” 

“Well, are they easy to work for?” 

“Stranger,” said Curly earnestly, “if yuh find 
one single lonesome party on these here holdin’s 
from th’ cook on up who wouldn’t go off an’ die 
fer th’ Montagues we’ll — poison him.” 

“ Lookit that gang storm th’ chuck-house,” in- 




154 


The Round-Up 


terrupted Frank. “ C’mon, cowboys.” 

At the supper table the newcomer introduced 
himself to the keen-eyed young man at the head 
of the table and to the punchers in general. 

“Boys,” he said, “my name is Joe McQuirey. 
I can saddle a horse and throw a steer. I have 
seen worse shots. I want a job. How about it?” 

Jim Harrison spoke up from about halfway of 
the table. 

“ Yuh got any duffle ? ” he inquired appraisingly. 
“Where’s yore hoss?” 

“ Brother, you see me in my all and alls. I’ve 
a pretty strong hunch that I’ll be starting at the 
very bottom of the ladder. Do you require any 
demonstrations? I can wrestle a few cows for 
you.” 

“Nope, guess not. I’m Harrison. We’re 
ridin’ a purty complete bunch uh punchers but 

-” he broke off and glanced toward the head 

of the table. 

“McQuirey?” said Jack Montague pleasantly. 
“ Stranger, are you the man that was detained for 
the murder of the station agent yesterday?” 

“The very same. And you are Jack Mon¬ 
tague?” 

“I am.” 

The two men eyed each other frankly, their 
gazes meeting squarely before all of the punchers. 

“I like your looks, McQuirey,” said young 
Montague softly. “You look capable.” 

“You don’t look real soft, yourself,” returned 




Target Practice and Lame Horses 155 


the newcomer. 

Montague smiled and made a sign at the fore¬ 
man. 

“ I guess we can take on one more puncher,” 
finished Harrison. 

After the meal was over McQuirey strolled up 
to the ranch house with Jack. He led up to the 
subject of knives, beginning with the statement 
that he had absolutely no equipment. 

“ Did you lose a knife recently, Mr. Mon¬ 
tague?” he finally asked. 

“Yes,” responded young Montague queerly. 
“ I’ve missed it ever since I was in town a couple 
of weeks ago.” 

“What sort of a knife was it?” 

Jack swiftly produced a knife from his pocket. 

“Just exactly like this one,” he said promptly. 

As they entered the hallway of the house 
McQuirey gazed curiously at the knife. He found 
it an exact counterpart of the blood-stained knife 
the sheriff had laid on the judge’s table the day 
before, even to the initials in the handle. 

“ How does it happen that you have two knives 
of this identical pattern?” demanded McQuirey. 

“ I was so fond of that design that I bought 
three of them at one time from a cutlery house 
in St. Louis,” explained Jack easily. 

“Does anyone know this to be so?” pursued 
McQuirey quickly. 

“No — not that I know of,” responded the 
puzzled Montague. 



156 


The Round-Up 


“ Forget it yourself, then,” admonished 
McQuirey. “ Because your missing knife is being 
held as the instrument with which death was in¬ 
flicted upon Myers, and I have no doubt but that 
it was the implement used.” 

“ You can’t mean it ? ” gasped Jack. “ I hadn’t 
heard a word of this.” 

“No? I was expecting Carruthers to come out 
and arrest you as soon as he locked me up. That’s 
what held me more than anything else, you know. 
The initials.” 

Jack pursed his lips and nodded slowly. 

“That is probably what has kept them from 
coming after me, too,” he added. “ Your initials.” 

In the days that followed McQuirey slipped 
smoothly into the ranch work. He could wrangle 
horses and steers with the best of them and he 
wasn’t afraid of work. The punchers took to his 
breezy and friendly personality and contributed 
bits of wearing apparel until he looked quite pre¬ 
sentable. Beyond the talking he did the first night 
to Jack he said nothing about himself. Aside 
from making one trip to town and one other trip 
of nearly two days’ duration he was constantly on 
the ranch and at work. 

The matter of the murder itself and of the 
missing and mysterious bondsman whom McQuirey 
had not known became of paramount interest. 
Harrison, unable to contain himself longer, 
broached the subject to the two Montagues. 

“Where does this here new cowhand fit in?” 



Target Practice and Lame Horses 157 


he demanded. “ Is he guilty uh anything?” 

“No,” replied Bill Montague. “As to where 
he fits in — you are not the only puzzled person. 
I expect he’s got all of Lebanon pretty well puz¬ 
zled by now. I imagine Carruthers’ brain is hum¬ 
ming like a top.” 

“ I’ve been wondering if I didn’t make a mis¬ 
take when I showed Owens that affidavit of 
Myers,” said Jack softly. “ If I suspected for one 
minute that he-” 

“Yuh can go right on suspectin’,” said Harri¬ 
son laconically. “ I wouldn’t put anything past 
any one of that gang. Your daddy scared ’em 
to death at cards last fall an’ yuh licked th’ socks 
offa Owens last month but do yuh think little 
things like that will stop men like Owens an’ his 
sheriff pet, or my friend Jackson, or Carter, or 
Tilby? ’Specially when Owens is packin’ a man- 
size grudge?” 

“ It might stop Tilby,” mused the elder Mon¬ 
tague. “He had better stuff in him once. And 
it had better stop the others — at least until we 
get this Nightbird affair cleaned up. That gang 
is becoming a very serious problem indeed, for 
this country.” 

“ If they’re going to attempt anything over that 
knife they’ve got, I wish they’d start something,” 
chafed Jack. “I’m going in to see Owens today 
and talk beef shipments with him. I’ll give him 
all the chance in the world to start something.” 

“Yuh ain’t gonna do nothin’ of th’ kind,” de- 




158 


The Round-Up 


dared Harrison. “Are yuh plumb crazy?” 

“We must make arrangements for shipping our 
fall beef,” rejoined Jack. “Ask Dad.” 

“Why, Bill,” said the foreman, turning to the 
other, “yuh ain’t gonna ship with Owens after 
that peach trouble, are yuh? Why, I wouldn’t let 
Jack go near him again. I don’t like folks who 
are too silent.” 

“He controls all the stock pens and freight 
houses of the railroad that touches Lebanon,” 
reminded the elder Montague. “ You know it isn’t 
practical to ship by steamboat. Memphis is no 
market.” 

“We don’t hafta ship outa Lebanon,” argued 
Harrison earnestly. “We can drive over to Wes¬ 
ton on th’ Canadian an’ ship to Kansas City from 
there.” 

“Yes, and lose ten dollars the head by running 
off the beef,” pointed out Jack. “ Besides, I want 
to see Mister Owens.” 

“We’ll lose twenty dollars th’ head —or more, 
by foolin’ with Owens,” returned Harrison bit¬ 
terly. “What I say around here don’t seem to 
have no weight no more.” 

“Don’t talk ridiculous,” rejoined Jack. “You’re 
getting old and childish. You are not figuring 
on losing anything by forcing conclusions with 
Jackson, are you?” 

“That’s different,” said Harrison. 

“Yeah,” drawled Jack. “Quite different. I 
haven’t time to argue with you. I’ll bring back 



Target Practice and Lame Horses 159 


a contract for cattle cars from Mr. Owens. 
S’long.” 

Seemingly unaware of his foolhardiness he rode 
whistling into the town. Owens, to his surprise, 
was reported out of the city. Before returning to 
the ranch, he wandered aimlessly over to the 
courthouse. The sheriff was not in evidence. 
Neither was his deputy. But there was an ex¬ 
cited little knot of men in the room where Judge 
Ryan presided as Justice of the Peace. 

“What’s up?” he asked curiously of the gath¬ 
ering. 

“Haven’t yuh heard?” returned one of the 
group. “Th’ bank at Licker-up was looted last 
night an’ two men was shot.” 

“What!” 

“’Sfact. Six men headed by uh feller in th’ 
usual ridin’ cloak rode into th’ town at three 
o’clock an’ robbed th’ bank. They was interrupted 
by two men who come along goin’ home an’ th’ 
devils shot ’em both. They rode off with seven 
thousand dollars.” 

“Kill them?” 

“Not dead yet. Doc Sawyer ain’t said nothin’ 
either way yit.” 

“Last night? The twenty-seventh? I suppose 
the majority of the Licker-up men were in Leb¬ 
anon for their monthly spree,” commented Jack. 

“That’s th’ reason we figured Nightbird pulled 
th’ trick,” responded his informant. “Th’ ban¬ 
dits knowed th’ town was short uh men.” 



i6o 


The Round-Up 


“He hasn’t failed yet in a raid, has he?” 

“Not yit. Ain’t it uncanny?” 

Licker-up was a settlement somewhat north of 
Lebanon and across the river. The male inhabit¬ 
ants found four saloons rather tame when there 
were fifty within ten miles. Hence had come the 
custom of month-ends at Lebanon. Nightbird, 
who invariably wore a black riding cloak and who 
never failed in a raid, had waited for a favorable 
moment and had scored again. 

Jack hunted out Judge Ryan and they held a 
long talk together. After that, Jack rode home 
in a very thoughtful mood. He was a young man 
of great vision and he foresaw the splendid future 
for this country. He realized that this particu¬ 
lar section was just about the only part of the 
United States that could build a fence about itself 
and manage to live comfortably upon its own. 
The cloud hanging over his own head and the in¬ 
creasing outbreaks worried him greatly. Ever 
since that memorable clash with the realtor there 
had been a difference in his heart. 

The general consensus of public opinion had 
laid the murder of the station agent at the door 
of Nightbird. Jack did not think so. He had 
reason for thinking otherwise. The story of the 
murder of Myers was not yet told. 

He was riding through Hawkins’ Draw, a spot 
hardly more than a slight buckle in the prairie 
with Dallas Road running through it, when his 
hat whipped suddenly from his head and he heard 



Target Practice and Lame Horses 161 


the vicious whine of a bullet. 

Instantly he fell forward on his horse’s neck, 
spurring the animal into a reckless gallop as he 
glanced back under his arm. A dark figure stood 
against a young tree on the right-hand knoll. The 
sunlight glinted upon a rifle barrel as the snipe- 
shooter lowered the weapon. 

“You know, hoss, bushwhacking always makes 
me mad,” Jack admitted to his mount. “ I wonder 
just who the devil that was?” 

He passed Blaine’s farm without stopping. 
When he reached the ranch Harrison had other 
news for him. 

“ Jack, McQuirey was out all night last night so 
th’ boys tell me an’ stove up Blackie with a lame 
forefoot.” 

“Where is he now?” asked young Montague 
crisply. 

“ ’Sposed to be out ridin’ herd.” 

“ When he comes in, send him up to the house, 
will you?” 

“Uh huh. Where’s yore hat?” 

“Lost it in Hawkins’ Draw,” said Jack 
laconically. 

“ Uh huh,” grunted Harrison keenly. “ That’s 
nice. Which one d’yuh tag?” 

“Nobody. Rifle practice,” rejoined the other. 

“Huh?” 

“Uh huh,” responded Jack and he turned to¬ 
ward the ranch house. 

“My Gawd!” groaned the foreman. “Batty. 



The Round-Up 


162 


Plumb nutty. He thinks bein’ in love entitles him 
to uh charmed life. I see I gotta go to town an’ 
make it safe for th’ innocent to roam around. 
Hey, Frank! Whoopee! C’mere, cowboy.” 

The puncher came loping easily up against the 
wind. Drawing rein at the very feet of the fore¬ 
man he made a deep, mocking salaam. 

“Ah ha! Der kink uf Swaden,” he saluted. 

“Umph!” grunted Harrison. “Round up 
McQuirey an’ tell him th’ bosses want to see him 
up at th’ house. Tell him to rub more liniment 
on Blackie’s leg tonight too, sure. I’m goin’ in. 
Be back ’fore sundown.” 

“Hey! Wait!” shouted Frank. “Don’t yuh 
want uh li’l comp’ny?” 

“Nope.” 

“Aw, gwan then, smarty.” 

The disappointed puncher turned and rode out 
eastward on the range. On the grassy and sunny 
slope of a tiny hillock he came across the new 
cowhand stretched out and snoring peaceably, 
having located him by his horse that stood near the 
top of the knoll grazing lazily on the swiftly turn¬ 
ing grass. 

With arms akimbo the puncher gazed down at 
the recumbent form with hat drawn over face. A 
well directed shot would spin the hat away and 
rudely awaken the sleeper. Frank grinned as he 
reached toward his holster. Abruptly the snores 
ceased. 

“ Get thee behind him, Satan,” spoke McQuirey 



Target Practice and Lame Horses 163 


in measured tones from under his hat. “ Don’t 
do anything funny, cowboy, or I’ll chase you clear 
across Richelieu County.” 

“ Yuh ain’t got no business with windows in yore 
hat,” complained Frank crossly. “Yuh oughta 
do yore sleepin’ at night time anyhow. Uh rustler 
could move th’ whole ranch an’ yuh wouldn’t never 
know it.” 

“Is that so? You didn’t have so much luck 
slipping up on me, did you?” drawled McQuirey, 
sitting up and sliding his hat back on his head at 
the same time. “ Roll me a cigarette.” 

“ My gosh, what uh crust,” gasped Frank. 
“Git up, Mucilage. Mister Montague an’ Jack 
wants to see yuh. An’ Jim says not to forget to 
rub Blackie’s leg again tonight.” 

“ Oh, he did, eh? And since when did Jim get 
the idea I would neglect the stock—particularly 
an animal I had lamed?” His tone was casual 
enough but the other sensed the hurt behind it. 

“ I don’t reckon as how Jim figures thataway 
atall,” he drawled. “ But he’s foreman yuh know 
an’ he’s gotta do some talkin’ now an’ then to 
make believe he’s holdin’ down his job.” 

“Kee — rect,” grinned McQuirey, stroking an 
imaginary beard. 

He sprang lithely on to his surprised horse’s 
back, probably shattering a day dream of ever¬ 
green pastures and clear sparkling water, afar 
from the disturbing element of man. 

“ Yuh ain’t forgot him yet,” cried Frank. 



164 


The Round-Up 


“Nor soon,” flung McQuirey as he rode toward 
the ranch house. 

He found the elder Montague at his desk in 
the big living room listening to Jack who was 
talking to him earnestly. The puncher shoved his 
hat to the back of his head and strolled up to the 
desk. Jack turned to face him. 

“McQuirey,” he said, “where were you last 
night?” 

“ Oh, riding around to blow the cow smell off 
of me.” 

“Weren’t over near Licker-up were you?” 

“Can’t say that I was — exactly. Why?” 

“The bank was looted and two citizens were 
shot.” 

“Nightbird?” asked McQuirey, raising his 
eyebrows. 

“ I guess so.” 

“Anybody blaming the unsuspecting bystander 
again? ” 

“Not yet,” said the elder Montague. “But 
how did you lame Blackie?” 

The puncher met his gaze squarely. 

“ Running away from a gang of mounted men 
I wasn’t prepared to and didn’t want to meet,” he 
admitted frankly. 

The ranchman pursed his lips and looked at his 
son. 

“Is there anything further you can tell us?” 
asked Jack. 

“I believe not,” responded McQuirey slowly. 



Target Practice and Lame Horses 165 


“I trust I haven’t offended you in acting so inde¬ 
pendently with DZX stock.” 

The ranchman waved an impatient hand and 
turned back to his desk. 

“Will that be all, gentlemen?” asked the 
puncher softly. 

“As far as we are concerned,” returned Jack, 
“ yes.” 

McQuirey swung on his heel and left the house, 
frowning slightly. 



CHAPTER XIII 

HARRISON STARTS THINGS 

HE DZX foreman cantered into Lebanon, 



1 tossed the reins over his pony’s head in 
front of the Texas Hotel, and dismounted. Shift- 
ing his holster forward and spitting out his wad 
of chewing tobacco he stepped into the lobby of 
the hotel for the first time since the day he had 
been carried out on a shutter. 

The Texas Hotel was really a pretentious 
place. Ostentatiously the property of one Mister 
Grenville of Dallas, Texas, it was, if the truth 
be known, but another link in the chain of iniq¬ 
uitous investments of Horsehead Owens. 

To carry out the color design and the atmos¬ 
phere of a metropolis practically all of the force 
of the suave establishment had been handpicked 
from hotels of larger cities. The day clerk was 
an importation from Kansas City. He had 
labored in the wilds of this unregenerate cow 
country for nearly a year now. As a hotel clerk 
in a rough town such as Lebanon he was a perfect 
lady. He had become fed up on uncouthness and 
brutality. He was deathly tired of cows, punch¬ 
ers, and ponies, and he longed for the sight of 
cable-cars and telephones. 

At sight of the dusty, grim figure of Harrison 


166 


Harrison Starts Things _167 

the clerk’s lower jaw sagged. His mind flashed 
back to that day in early summer when he had 
seen this man carried out through the lobby, a 
bullet hole in his shoulder. Revenge — cattle 
feud — trouble — death — more violence — gun 
shots crowded through his mind as he watched 
Harrison advance. His fingers played a veritable 
solo on the various buzzers that rested beneath 
his trembling hands. It was later reported that 
he sounded the fire alarm, the raid warning, the 
dinner bell, the manager’s buzzer, the janitor’s 
button and called all of the bell hops. 

A dampening silence fell over the entire lobby 
as every eye turned toward the DZX foreman. 
No one moved. The denizens of the Texas Hotel 
had found it quite an advantageous rule never to 
start anything v/ith a newcomer before ascertain¬ 
ing who or what he wanted. This restraint saved 
mistakes and annoying depositions later on. 

“ Yuh oughta have th’ sheriff here to accompany 
yuh on his chin trombone,” suggested Harrison to 
the clerk as he balanced himself before the desk, 
his hands resting lightly on his waist. “What 
yuh playin’? ‘Nearer My God to Thee’ — with 
variations? ” 

There was a ripple of merriment about the 
room and the growing tension was relieved. The 
clerk’s relief was pitiful. 

“Is Mister Jackson in?” inquired the foreman 
gently. 

“Yessir — nosir, that is, I mean — I don’t 



The Round-Up 


168 


know, sir,” stammered the uncertain young man 
behind the desk. 

“Thanks,” said Harrison dryly. “Yore ex¬ 
planation is very lucid.” 

“ In th’ barroom,” called a voice from behind 
him. 

Harrison inclined his head gravely in acknowl¬ 
edgment of this direction and walked on to the 
entrance into the hotel’s saloon. He glanced 
entirely around the befogged room and then, in 
two quick strides, stepped through and to one side 
of the door, placing a solid wall between him and 
the men he had left in the lobby behind him. 
Almost subconsciously he felt to see whether his 
gun was at his hip. 

He singled out the athletic, neatly-built gam¬ 
bler of the cold, sneering-blue eyes and handsome 
features. There was the merest hint of square¬ 
ness to Jackson’s head and a faint right-angled 
bulge to the contour of his jaw. Harrison walked 
slowly toward him and planted himself exactly 
before the amazed gambler. 

Just how every one in a crowded, noisy place 
becomes aware of anything unusual or inimical 
so instantaneously is a matter of speculation, but 
that pending gunplay or anticipant dramatic action 
silences the uproar is nearly always true. Almost 
magically a semicircle about the two men, with 
the bar as the bisecting chord, became devoid of 
human life. The man who had been conferring 
with Jackson dropped back without the slightest 



Harrison Starts Things 


169 


hesitation. The bartender sighed as he glanced 
at the plate glass mirror behind the bar and then 
shrugged resignedly. 

Jackson eyed the DZX foreman calmly. His 
nerve, after he recovered from his shock, was 
under superb control. It was quite an effort to 
meet the gaze of the man he had shot almost 
precisely upon this very spot, but he managed to 
do it nicely. He did not make the mistake of 
going for his gun in sheer panic as most men in 
his position would have. Instead, he eyed Har¬ 
rison critically up and down as one would examine 
an inanimate curiosity or a new bug. Then he 
calmly turned his back on his enemy and with a 
steady hand poured a neat peg of whiskey into 
his glass. With a deftly synchronized motion of 
his hand and head he tossed the liquor down his 
throat and shoved the bottle and glass away from 
him. 

Harrison’s face was expressionless beyond a 
certain grimness of purpose. He did not appear 
to notice the consummate bit of acting. He ig¬ 
nored the insult completely. 

“ Mister Jackson,” he drawled softly, “ I craves 
to ask yuh one question. Jes’ one li’l question is 
all I want to know.” 

The gambler did not reply. He merely turned 
his head indifferently and bent his hard gaze on 
the foreman as though seeing him for the first 
time. He drew slowly back from the bar, allow¬ 
ing himself more freedom of movement. 



170 


The Round-Up 


“I jes’ want to know can yuh tell me anything 
’bout th’ shootin’ at Jack Montague in Hawkins’ 
Draw ’long noon this mornin’? If not, can yuh 
direct me to somebody as has any prior informa¬ 
tion? ” 

The long room was completely still as every¬ 
one strained to hear the gambler’s response. 
This was news indeed. Some one shooting at 
Montague of the DZX? 

“Just what do you mean,” Jackson spoke at 
length in a silky voice, “the shooting at Jack 
Montague? ” 

“ Just what I said. Somebody has been in¬ 
dulgin’ in uh li’l target practice with Jack Mon¬ 
tague’s back for a target. I came in to warn 
somebody that it ain’t safe to so continue.” 

“The young man in question being too timid 
to speak for himself, I presume,” drawled Jack- 
son. “Or was he killed? Perhaps incapaci¬ 
tated?” 

“Neither. They missed—if yuh haven’t 
heard.” 

There was an almost audible gasp from the 
various groups of watchers at Harrison’s direct 
insinuation. The painfully tense audience braced 
themselves and strained their ears for the crash 
of .45s. But the silence remained unbroken. 

“No, I hadn’t heard,” finally replied Jackson 
disinterestedly as he flicked an imaginary speck 
from the sleeve of his coat. 

“ Then I am to understand that yuh don’t know 



Harrison Starts Things _171 

anything ’bout it?” queried Harrison. 

“ I am sure that I cannot enlighten you as to 
what you are to understand,” returned Jackson, 
and his voice was low and studiedly insulting. 
“ If you are clumsily inquiring in your crude, boor¬ 
ish way if I fired at Montague’s back, the only 
satisfactory answer I can give you is — if I had, 
I wouldn’t have missed.” 

The foreman drew and expelled a long breath. 

“Thanks,” he stated calmly. “I’m glad it 
wasn’t you. They ain’t no fun in that kind of 
merry makin’. Also, I might state in passing, 
I’m plumb happy to see we both admits yuh ain’t 
above doin’ th’ shootin’. That will be all for 
today.” 

With this, he turned and walked out of the 
barroom. 

Jackson watched him to the door, an unfathom¬ 
able look in his eyes. Then he turned and reached 
once more for the bottle and glass. His face a 
mask, he poured a stiff libation. He raised the 
glass and looked at the beads on the liquid. At 
this juncture his composure gave way. His hand 
trembled and he spilled the whiskey. A gaze of 
such profound, burning hatred leaped into his 
eyes that no one present even dreamed of smiling 
at his pallor or his ague. 

He waited until he could trust his face to mask 
his emotions and then he followed to the street, 
his step firm, his features pale but composed. 

Crossing the street diagonally to the opposite 



172 


The Round-Up 


corner where stood Owens’ General Store, cursing 
the mud holes under his breath and the thicker 
mud to come when the fall rains grew heavier, 
he ascended the stairs to the third floor. Stepping 
to the door marked “L. A. Owens — Real 
Estate,” the office which served as headquarters 
for all of the realtor’s business activities, he 
twisted the knob and walked in. Slamming the 
door behind him he stood staring moodily at the 
three men seated before him. 

Owens, the uncommunicative and saturnine, the 
man of few words and many thoughts, sat be¬ 
hind his desk. He still wore his hat and a pair 
of worn riding gloves lay on the flat surface be¬ 
fore him. Carter, the sardonic and fastidious sat 
in a tilted chair — a characteristic pose. Tilby, a 
lanky ex-Kentuckian with still discernible traces of 
former refinement, was a living example of that 
threadbare Kentucky quip regarding the reason 
so many Kentuckians left the blue grass country 
and went West; they were so frequent that the 
customary greeting between two natives from 
Kentucky assumed the form of a ritual: “Why, 
howdy, Cunnel. Who’d evah expec’ to see yo’ 
’way out heah, suh? What did yo y do back 
home? ” 

The seated men blinked at the noise and looked 
curiously at the new arrival’s gloomy face. Oddly 
enough it was Owens who broke the silence. 

“Well?” he clipped. 

“Who shot at Montague this morning?” de- 



Harrison Starts Things 


m 


manded Jackson. “You, Carter?” 

Carter looked up queerly. 

“Why me? Am I the official executioner?” 

“I wish to know,” rejoined his questioner as 
his gaze sought Tilby’s face. 

The Kentuckian flushed slightly under Jackson’s 
inquiring glance. 

“ You know that I never shoot or stab anybody 
from behind,” he stated distinctly. 

“That’ll do, Tilby,” rapped Owens heavily. 
“So you knew it was from behind, eh?” Jack- 
son laughed uglily. 

“What about it?” demanded Carter, flashing 
Tilby a venomous glance. 

“Why in hell did he miss? That’s what I 
want to know,” hissed Jackson furiously, his rage 
at last overwhelming his self-restraint. “ The fool 

— risking his own position, not to mention tipping 
off our hand by such a stunt. And then missing! 
Did you give orders for this, Horsehead?” 

Owens only grunted. 

“What do you mean ‘tipping off our hand’?” 
asked Tilby. 

“You know very well they will suspect a plant 
after such a foolish move. You know I wanted 
things to quiet down before we did anything else. 
You know I want to be sure of success this time. 
Now, after that shot at Montague that long- 
legged jack-knife Harrison rode all the way to 
town to accuse me. He just left the Texas Hotel 

— after staying until he made me ache all over. 



174 


The Round-Up 


And I was powerless to make a move because 
this Myers affair is still hanging.” 

“You didn’t give him any satisfaction, did 
you?” drawled Carter. 

“How could I? This was a distinct surprise 
to me. I wanted to kill him. Owens, I can’t stand 
this passiveness much longer. Why the devil 
hasn’t young Montague been arrested for the 
murder of the station agent? You know damned 
well that was his knife and no one else’s. Where 
were you this morning? He rode right into town 
and out again as fresh as you please. What’s 
Carruthers doing? Running around sticking up 
placards about this rustler Nightbird?” 

“You know the trouble,” growled Owens, 
frowning out from under his brows. “That 
tramp — McQuirey — stumbled into town at 
wrong moment. Scared Carruthers to death — 
tried to let him go, but Ryan wouldn’t stand for 
it. Analysis came so close to truth — had same 
initials too. Bonded by stranger he claimed he 
didn’t know. Bondsman’s initials same. Deal 
crabbed.” 

“ I don’t see how it is,” commented Carter. 
“ More than one person can identify the knife 
as young Montague’s.” 

“You were willing to let matter rest, yourself, 
at first,” reminded Owens caustically. 

“We’ve been over all this ground before,” 
grated Jackson. “You are not so patient your¬ 
self, Horsehead. And as for me, if something 



Harrison Starts Things 


175 


doesn’t happen shortly you can’t expect me to 
keep my hands off. Regardless of what we decided 
before, in view of everything now, I say what 
difference does it make if everybody’s initials are 
J. M.? Make this charge against Jack Montague 
go through and make it go through now. Are 
you trying to save young Montague for yourself? 
Besides, Carruthers had better get busy and sat¬ 
isfy people with some kind of work and arrest 
somebody. If he doesn’t make a showing of some 
kind — you won’t be dictating to a sheriff next 
term, perhaps before then,” he concluded point¬ 
edly. 

Owens was silent, a slight scowl on his other¬ 
wise wooden-like features giving a meager hint 
of the flying, racing thoughts locked within the 
bony prison of his skull. Everything Jackson 
had said carried weight and one or two points 
stung like fiery barbs in an inflamed wound. 

“Why not arrest all three of the men in ques¬ 
tion?” suggested Carter pleasantly. “ McQuirey 
and Montague are at the same place, I under¬ 
stand. And the mysterious bondsman can be 
found, doubtless.” 

“All three?” exclaimed Tilby. “But we have 
nothing on the bondsman and McQuirey is out 
on bond now.” 

“That’s a good idea, Carter,” endorsed Jack- 
son, ignoring the Kentuckian’s objection. “This 
clever cowboy tramp is an unknown quantity 
around here. It won’t hurt him to board with 



176 


The Round-Up 


the county indefinitely. What if he is out on 
bond? Lock him up without bond this time. Do 
Montague the same way. Do the bondsman the 
same also.” 

“ But, can we make it stick? Is such an action 
legal?” remonstrated Tilby. 

“You are so obtuse, man,” declared Jackson 
impatiently. “What difference does it make? 
Carruthers is taking his orders from Owens, not 
from the county. What do you say, Horsehead? 
Come out of it.” 

Owens’ expression at last denoted a stimulated 
mental activity. 

“This your advice, eh?” he flung at Jackson. 

The gambler nodded vigorously. 

“Since this last development, yes,” he crisped. 

“All right,” jerked the realtor. “Send Car¬ 
ruthers to me.” 

And Jackson and Carter smiled wolfishly while 
Tilby shrugged indifferently. 



CHAPTER XIV 

THE MAN FROM ROCKHOUSE CANYON 

U PON the sixteenth of the month, three days 
before the murder of the station agent at 
Lebanon, at dusk a lean, tired looking man rode 
into the farmyard of Blaine’s fruit ranch and 
swung stiffly to the ground. He carried an an¬ 
cient looking, sawed-off shotgun which he handled 
affectionately. His horse, an animal of no ap¬ 
parent parts save prominent bones, looked as 
weary as its master. 

Henry Blaine walked down to meet the 
stranger. 

“Evening,” he said. 

“Howdy,” returned the stranger wearily. 
“ Can yuh put me up fer th’ night?” 

“Yes, indeed,” Blaine replied heartily. 
“You’ve come a long way since morning, I take 
it. Lead your mount right on into the barn.” 

“Thanks. I come from quite uh ways th’ 
other side uh th’ Canadian.” 

“You don’t say. I dare say the rest will be 
welcome to your horse.” 

“ I reckon ’twon’t hurt none. Me an’ Her¬ 
cules has kivered lots uh territory together. This 
ain’t th’ fust time we been tired. My name’s 
Martin — Jed Martin.” 


177 


178 


The Round-Up 


“And mine is Blaine. Glad to have you, Mister 
Martin. Just turn Hercules into that far stall. 
There’s a feeding already there and hay above 
in the rack. He can get water at the trough 
out here in the barnyard.” 

They walked together to the house where Patty 
was experiencing little difficulty in placing supper 
before the two regular hired hands. They sat 
down to a bountiful table and Martin immediately 
fell under the spell of the girl’s cooking. He had 
thought that such dishes existed only in Heaven. 

He listened to her vivacious chatter and ad¬ 
mired her shrewd sense and quick wit in his awk¬ 
ward way. She was a complete revelation to 
him. He had never seen a woman like her before 
in his life; all the women he had ever known 
had been colorless, ugly, lifeless, uneducated. A 
wave of pity for those others swept over him 
and wonder engulfed him at the beauty and 
depths of this radiant creature. 

Nevertheless, despite the obvious culture of the 
Blaines, Martin felt a subtle kinship, an intangible 
bond of sympathy of some kind between them and 
himself. He smoked a pipe or two in lazy con¬ 
tentment with the fruit grower after supper, but 
the singing crickets and locusts, together w T ith a 
comfortably filled stomach, conspired against him 
and weariness overtook him where he sat. He 
evinced a desire to go to bed and Blaine cour¬ 
teously showed him to a spare room that almost 
frightened him by its orderly cleanliness. 



The Man from Rockhouse Canyon 179 


But Jed Martin had a brighter look the next 
morning. His homely, lined face seemed less 
tired and a kindly expression shone from his eyes 
despite the stern, set expression of his features. 
He looked at everything about the place carefully, 
taking things one item at a time, as though pass¬ 
ing upon one object before allowing his mental 
vision to pass on to another image. It was after 
breakfast that he broached the matter which he 
had evidently been mulling over to himself. 

“ Yuh got uh likely place here, Mister Blaine, 
he said. “ It looks like uh real good farm. 
Where I come from they ain’t fifty acres in one 
spot no place, an’ th’ soil is pore an’ stony.” 

“Is that so? Where are you from, if that is 
a fair question?” Blaine inquired, seeing that 
Martin had practically invited such a query. 

“ Down in th’ Kimish Mountings in southwest¬ 
ern Arkansaw. I ain’t been home in nigh onto 
five year now an’ I’m kinda homesick fer farmin’. 
I ain’t no cowpuncher. I’m jes’ uh plain farmer 
an’ mounting man an’ yore place sure looks good 
to me. I wonder could yuh use uh extry hand fer 
uh spell?” 

“ Unfortunately I’ve done very little on the 
farm proper, having spent most of my time this 
year on peaches,” said the fruit grower. “And 
fall is here now. There won’t be much to do 
except care for the stock. I really don’t need any 
more help. I’m sorry.” 

“ Mebbe I didn’t make my idee plain. I’m 



i8o 


The Round-Up 


aimin’ to stay in this part uv th’ country fer uh 
spell an’ I hafta eat while I stay. I’d be willin’ 
to work fer my board an’ keep an’ fodder for 
Hercules,” suggested Martin hopefully. “ Her¬ 
cules kin work, too. An’ I wouldn’t wanta saddle 
myself on yuh fer always. Jes’ fer uh spell. An’ 
everybody else ’round here’s ranchin’, ain’t they?” 

“That’s true. I’ve the only farm around Leb¬ 
anon,” murmured Blaine. “But I can’t allow a 
man to work for me under those conditions. I 
would be ashamed to offer a full-grown man such 
wages. I’m sorry I have nothing really to offer 
you, but I am just getting on my feet here.” 

“ But ’sposin’ I insist on workin’ under those 
conditions? ” 

“ I never turn anyone away from my table,” 
returned Blaine simply. “You’re welcome to 
stay, if you wish.” 

“Thanks,” said Martin. “You’re hospitable 
an’ kindly, neighbor. I won’t fergit it.” 

Martin proved to be a willing worker, and he 
possessed quaint bits of knowledge regarding 
farming, some of which Blaine found instructive, 
some of which he found highly amusing. Except 
for one trip to town on the afternoon of the twen¬ 
tieth, four days later, he stayed fairly close to the 
farm. Aside from the fact that he subjected 
everyone who passed or stopped to a close scrutiny 
there was nothing peculiar in his actions. 

Bit by bit he revealed his life and his past to 
the ex-Mississippian and in return he learned 



The Man from Rockhouse Canyon 181 


somewhat of Blaine’s former struggles with a 
poor farm that was just a few degrees advanced 
above his own rocky, hilly soil. He was inter¬ 
ested in the fruit grower’s story. It was like turn¬ 
ing an unsuspected page in the bleak chapter of 
discouraging farming. 

Perhaps he saw in Blaine a kindred soul, a 
bond brother in the fraternity of unceasing toil 
and barren returns. Perhaps it was his need of 
human sympathy and understanding and he real¬ 
ized that here he would find it. Whatever the 
cause, he gradually overcame his native reticence 
and talked, and Blaine was not greatly surprised 
one day, while they rested on their pitchforks in 
the barn and were alone together, to find Martin 
baring to him the mainspring, the essentials, the 
unwavering resolve in his life. 

“So th’ next day Hugh was drivin’ back from 
th’ railroad which nigh onto forty mile away,’’ 
Martin was saying, “an’ he was drivin’ th’ough 
Li’l Windy Gap on his way back to Rockhouse 
when he spied this here stranger awalkin’ ’long 
like he was powerful tired. ’Course Hugh give 
him uh lift. Down our way nobody thinks uh 
passin’ up uh walker. 

“Waal, th’ feller said his name was Thompson 
an’ he was on his way to Texas. They rode on 
to th’ three forks an’ all th’ time this here Thomp¬ 
son was cottonin’ to th’ hosses. Hugh ast him to 
stop over fer uh spell an’ Thompson said all right. 
An’ jes’ after they turned off onto th’ right fork 



182 


The Round-Up 


this here snake reaches casual-like behind him an’ 
picks up Hugh’s shotgun. ’Fore Hugh could 
more’n tell him to be keerful th’ cur shot my 
brother right in th’ head, Mowin’ th’ left side 
plumb away.” 

Martin ceased and let his fork drop unheeded 
back against his shoulder as he clenched his lean, 
brown hands in recollection of that simple but 
ghastly little tragedy. Blaine’s eyes grew kindly 
and sympathetic as he listened. 

“ He went th’ough Hugh’s clothes an’ tumbled 
him over into th’ road an’ turned round an’ driv 
off th’ough th’ middle fork. Jes’ think of it! 
Killin’ uh man jes’ fer uh pair uh hosses an’ 
mebbe five or ten dollars,” concluded the moun¬ 
taineer bitterly. 

“ But, Martin, how did you find out just how 
the murder was committed?” 

“Th’ road warn’t traveled much,” replied 
Martin simply. “When we set out to look fer 
Hugh four days later when he didn’t show up — 
we knowed he wouldn’t of stayed that long at th’ 
railroad — they hadn’t nobody else been along 
th’ road. We found th’ spot where Thompson 
had throwed Hugh out into th’ road an’ searched 
him. Uh liT farther we found th’ gun an’ ’bout 
twenty yards back we seen th’ tracks where th’ 
hosses jumped when he fired th’ gun. An’ back 
in Li’l Windy Gap was th’ stranger’s footprints 
where he’d been awalkin’. We could tell he was 
uh purty big man.” 



The Man from Rockhouse Canyon 183 


“And you found Hugh?” prompted Blaine 
gently. 

“Yep, we found Hugh,” replied Martin 
queerly. “ But he warn’t layin’ there in th’ road. 
He had come to hisself some time later an’ was 
thirsty, ’course. He knowed where he was an’ 
he drug hisself two hundred yards down th’ough 
th’ timber to Deer-lick Spring after water. God 
only knows how long it tuck him. An’ when he 
got there——” Martin’s voice broke and his face 
twitched spasmodically. “When he got there, 
Mister Blaine, th’ damn spring was dry. 

“That’s where we found him, his head all 
open an’ bloody an’ hunderds uh flies buzzin’ an’ 
crawlin’ round on him. When I seen him I 
knowed he was dead. I run down to him, my 
heart in my boots. I reckon I was cussin’ out 
loud an’ makin’ uh noise ’cause jes* as I got to 
him, he opened his eyes an’ looked up smilin’ at 
me. ‘That yuh, Jed?’ he said. ‘I been waitin’ 
fer yuh.’ 

“Yuh can’t never know how I felt, Mister 
Blaine, when he said that. Th’ goose bumps 
stood out all over me an’ I thought my heart ’ud 
bust. He’d been there four days ’thout no water 
even, jes’ uh sufferin’ an’ waitin’ fer me. An’ 
I didn’t know it all that time till his woman come 
over to my cabin on th’ other side uh Rockhouse 
an’ told me he hadn’t come back from th’ rail¬ 
road. 

“We never thought uh him bein’ lost or hurt 




The Round-Up 


184 

’cause uh mountaineer knows his mountings. But 
jes’ think of that! y He’d been there all that time 
an’ I didn’t know, I didn’t know. If I’d ’ud been 
there I could of helped him; mebbe I could of 
got him to uh doctor down to th’ railroad; any¬ 
way I could of got him water an’ been company. 
There he was, still in his right mind, aknowin’ 
he was gonna die, sufferin’ an’ alone, his head 
plumb full uh maggots — th’ blow flies had blowed 
him, ’course — an’ somewhere four days ahead of 
me was his murderer jes’ drivin’ off peaceable. 
Oh my God!” 

After a silence he continued. 

“We give Hugh uh drink an’ made him as 
comf’table as we could, but his mouth was swelled 
up an’ he died ’fore we could git uh wagon there 
to move him. That was more’n four years ago. 
I ain’t caught up with Thompson yit an’ I been 
all over Texas,” concluded Martin with such grim 
finality and absolute confidence in the ultimate 
justice of kismet that Blaine almost felt pity for 
the man who had been just “four days ahead” 
when the blood trail was taken up. 

“How do you expect to recognize him?” ques¬ 
tioned the fruit grower gently. “According to 
your story, you’ve never seen him and know only 
that he was a big man.” 

“ I’ll never miss him if he’s alive,” stated Mar¬ 
tin positively. “Hugh lived long enough to tell 
me that he had uh rabbit mouth that quivered 
like he couldn’t he’p it, an’ close-set eyes an’ uh 



The Man from Rockhouse Canyon 185 


square kind of scar ’bout th’ size of uh half dollar 
in th’ middle of his recedin’ chin.” 

Blaine shook his head slowly. 

“There’s no one whom that description fits 
perfectly around these parts that I am aware of,” 
he said at length. “ You had better ask the Mon¬ 
tagues of the DZX. They know this country 
well.” 

“ I will,” affirmed the Arkansan. “ I ain’t in 
no hurry now. I been chasin’ down fellers that 
was said to tally with that description fer goin’ 
on to five year now an’ they hasn’t been th’ right 
man. Mebbe I’ll find him when I least expect to. 
Anyhow, I’ll find him some day, an’ we’ll both 
know it when I do.” 

Blaine clasped his hands over the top of his 
fork and gazed out over the rolling country with 
retrospective eyes. He had received a glimpse of 
a life behind that curtain which veils all human 
souls that startled him with somber thoughts. He 
could appreciate, because of his own bleak exist¬ 
ence, a life story behind Martin’s simple speech 
of soul searing toil as barren of all that made 
life worth while as a sun scorched rock in the 
desert. 

Martin had been born and reared in the Kim- 
ish Mountains. According to his description of 
his homeland every little stream, every little gully, 
each valley, each hilltop had an individual name 
although there were miles and miles of wild moun¬ 
tains and forests that no white man had yet 



i86 


The Round-Up 


climbed or penetrated and probably few red men 
of the past. 

The first white settlers who had penetrated 
into this aboriginal country had probably been 
immigrating westward and had paused in despair 
in the heart of the region, unable to proceed and 
doubting their ability to retrace their steps. They 
had remained, almost forgetting the rest of the 
world and likewise being forgotten. 

The soil was stony and unproductive in many 
places. Nowhere in the country closer than the 
first foothills leading into the mountains could fifty 
acres of ground fit for cultivation be found in one 
spot. The principal occupations were farming 
indifferently, hunting, trapping, fishing, moon- 
shining and feuding. The houses were structures 
unappealing to the eye, roughhewm log shacks of 
uneven and unbeautiful construction, chinked with 
clay and barren of all comforts. 

Wild game claimed the country. One could 
ride — where horseback riding were possible — 
for miles and miles without striking a human 
habitation. No season brought more than bare 
necessities to the mountaineers and a poor season 
all but left them destitute. During the period of 
depression following the Civil War times had 
been so terrible and weather conditions so un¬ 
favorable that the mountaineers had had to fol¬ 
low the government teams which drove through 
the foothills and pick out the undigested grain 
left along the trail by the animals in order to 



The Man from Rockhouse Canyon 187 


have seed for the next season’s planting. 

Blaine visualized the barrenness of all this 
through the medium of the lanky Arkansan’s 
voice. He could see the cabins perched crazily and 
crudely on rocky hillsides, the drab women with 
their one-pattern dresses and bare feet, with their 
faded bonnets and colorless lives. He saw the 
old mountaineers who dimly remembered another 
world than this, a world of less sterility from 
which they had inexplainably been taken as chil¬ 
dren. He saw the unhappy, bleak childhood of 
those born in the mountains like Martin, robbed 
before the cradle of their rightful heritage of 
happiness and love. Thank God for the slight 
blessing that their suffering was not as acute as 
it might be. Thank God that they knew not what 
was lacking, that their mental growth, their imag¬ 
ination, their chance for comparison had for¬ 
tunately been dwarfed and unrealized. 

The meditating farmer could see the harsh 
ideals, the individual passions, the leaping play 
of the flames of primitive love and hate, the un¬ 
yielding code of honesty and of a life for a life 
— a law and a cycle of existence as mighty to them 
as a merger on Wall Street or a war to the rest 
of the world. 

He could see a weeping woman, stirred at last 
out of her spiritless calm, crying in her patched 
calico apron, two or three half-clad children cling¬ 
ing to her knees in fearful and uncomprehending 
wonderment as the limp form of the husband 



The Round-Up 


188 

and father was tenderly carried into the cabin and 
laid on the dusty, rustling cornshuck mattress — 
a victim of the deadly feuds of the mountains. 
Blaine sighed and shuddered. 

“ This certainly is God’s country, Martin,” he 
murmured softly. 

“Yep, I reckon it is. But th’ mountaineer loves 
his mountings. I ’spect we better git to movin’ 
this here hay,” responded Martin ordinarily. 



CHAPTER XV 

MISSING-ONE COWPUNCHER 

“/CARRUTHERS,” said Owens heavily, “go 
get young Montague and McQuirey.” 

“H — huh?” The worthy sheriff was as¬ 
tounded. He eyed the realtor with popping eyes. 
“How’s that? Git Montague now? I thought 
that after that tramp mix-” 

Carruthers halted of his own volition. Horse- 
head Owens did not speak. He glared steadily 
into the beady orbs of the sheriff. 

“But — but how about McQuirey’s bond — 
Judge Ryan-?” faltered the uneasy official. 

“ Leave that to me,” clipped Owens briefly. 
“All you got to do is to get ’em. Also, find that 
bondsman.” 

Carruthers gulped noisily in his uncertainty 
and bewilderment. Later, he was so physically 
uncomfortable also that he became of the firm 
opinion that—in that very instant—he had 
swallowed his tobacco. At least he couldn’t re¬ 
member spitting it out and he had heartburn for 
an hour. 

“ Kee — rect,” he managed to quaver and he 
turned weakly to go. 

For some reason Sheriff Carruthers was trou¬ 
bled. He did not anticipate a very pleasant 
189 




i go 


The Round-Up 


journey nor a very delectable reception at the 
predetermined destination. There were various 
reasons — about thirty of them. Hence, an hour 
later found a posse of forty men, hard-faced and 
silent, turning out Dallas Road and heading 
south. 

Perhaps the least about the men Carruthers 
deputized to ride with him the better. “Water 
seeks its own level,” goes the axiom. The opinion 
of the better citizens of Richelieu County might 
be summed up in the comment of Curly Mat¬ 
thews as, pausing on the step of the chuck-house, 
he made out the identity of a number of the riders 
through the dusk. 

“ My gosh! ” he exclaimed. “ Somebody must 
of hung th’ high sign on th’ Texas Hotel. Looky 
what’s on th’ move.” 

• The punchers turned from the alluring door¬ 
way and peered out at the oncoming visitors. 
Almost as one man they deployed and drew their 
guns as, creaking and jingling, the sheriff’s posse 
turned from the main road and rode up to the 
DZX corrals. 

“Hey! This here is me — Carruthers,” 
shouted that official hastily. “No fireworks now, 
boys. This here is uh posse.” 

“Oh, is that what yuh call yore bunch?” 
queried Frank. “ Much obliged for th’ informa¬ 
tion. We was figurin’ th’ posse ’bout half uh 
mile behind yuh.” 

The sheriff’s reply was very indistinct, his an- 



Missing — One Cowpuncher _191 

ger and his caution struggling with each other. 
He must have stuffed his beard into his mouth to 
prevent ugly words. 

“We come to talk peaceable an’ to ast yuh for 
that feller McQuirey,” continued Carruthers as 
soon as he again commanded his voice. 

“McQuirey?” repeated Curly wonderingly. 
“What’s he gone an’ done now?” 

“Where is McQuirey?” whispered one of the 
punchers suddenly. “ I don’t see him.” 

“He was here jes’ ’fore we sighted th’ posse,” 
said one. “I felt him shovin’ towards th’ chuck- 
house.” 

A murmur of surprise ran around the ring of 
DZX men. The members of the posse milled 
their horses impatiently. 

“What’s wrong here?” asked the cool, even 
voice of Jack Montague as he came from the 
direction of the ranch house with Harrison. An 
instant later the elder Montague came forward 
from the neighborhood of the bunk-house and 
joined them. 

“We come to git uh man accused uh Myers’ 
murder,” stated the sheriff, taking hold of his 
faltering courage with both hands. “ Don’t resist 
th’ law, young man. Be peaceful now. Make 
yore punchers put up their hardware an’ let us 
git this business over with.” 

“Whom do you want? And have you a war¬ 
rant?” 

“We wants McQuirey an’—Mister Mon- 



192 


The Round-Up 


tague,” called Carruthers in evident relief as he 
saw the form of the ranchman loom up, “ I 
gotta git two men here. Help me tend to this 
business peaceable ’fore our men gits away — 
that is, if they was uh mind to.” 

“Golly, th’ quota’s growin’,” put in Curly 
aghast. “At first he only wanted McQuirey. 
Th’ longer he stays th’ more he wants. We bet¬ 
ter hurry an’ fix him up or he’ll want us all.” 

“Who is the other man you want?” demanded 
the elder Montague crisply. 

“ They’s been developments,” stated the sheriff 
carefully, “an’ I gotta — I’ll hafta ask yore son 
to come along till we git things straight.” 

The punchers surged forward with a roar, the 
frightened horses of the posse reared backward 
and Harrison sprang quickly before the angered 
DZX men. Jack exchanged a glance with his 
father. 

“ Careful, boys,” cautioned the ranchman 
calmly. “Sing Li! Bring a lamp out here. 
Sheriff, we have no intention of resisting the law. 
However, you might explain matters a bit. I 
understood that McQuirey had been arrested and 
bailed out once already in this affair. As for my 
son, just how do your developments concern 
him?” 

“ I ain’t at liberty to tell yuh all ’bout it, but 
th’ clue lays suspicion on both uh them.” 

“Just what do you mean?” grated Jack, mak¬ 
ing a swift step toward the sheriff. 



Missing — One Cowpuncher 


193 


“Easy, son, easy,” admonished his father. 
“Let’s get this straight. McQuirey! Come for¬ 
ward.” 

“He ain’t here, Mister Montague,” spoke up 
Frank. 

“What’s that?” fairly howled Carruthers. “I 
knowed yuh was wastin’ time for uh purpose. 
Dismount, men, an’ surround th’ chuck-house 
first.” 

“There’s no use,” broke in Harrison in a dan¬ 
gerous, flat-toned voice. “We don’t double deal 
out here. McQuirey ain’t here, I can tell yuh 
that without lookin’. If he was, he’d step up for 
Mister Montague.” 

“He was here uh li’l while ago,” offered Curly 
helpfully. “ He must of seen yuh cornin’, Sheriff, 
an’ went off for uh li’l fresh air. Yuh understand 
how I mean this.” 

Carruthers exploded in angry exasperation. 

“ Don’t talk like that, Sheriff,” protested Frank. 
“ Yuh’ll teach our hosses bad habits an’ make th’ 
meat on th’ steers tough.” 

“ He can’t be far away,” snarled Carruthers, 
ignoring these pleasantries, all of his former re¬ 
luctance burned away at Montague’s seeming com¬ 
plaisance and as the dormant and cruel lust of 
the manhunt which lies in every human bosom, a 
surviving instinct of^primordial ages, welled up 
within him. “ He’s likely on th’ place. Hunt 
for him. Mister Montague, yuh ain’t gonna 
object to that?” 



194 


The Round-Up 


“Not at all,” responded the rancher shortly. 
“My men will help you.” 

“An’—an’--” hesitated Carruthers. 

“And I will be right here, watching every move 
you make,” purred Jack felinely. “ You can’t get 
away from me now until you explain yourself.” 

Faintly Carruthers waved his cohorts on to the 
search. He wondered why he had never noticed 
the danger signals that stuck out all over this 
youth before. If he had ever read potential killer 
and cruel ruthlessness in a human face he read it 
now in young Montague’s. Why was Owens such 
a fool? Couldn’t the man see the terrible change 
in this young tiger? Very earnestly Carruthers 
wished himself safely out of the mess. 

The search was short-lived. 

Before the members of the posse could bark 
up their shins in the darkness and swear feelingly 
for the entertainment of the delighted cowpunch- 
ers two of them approached the bunk-house 
door and espied a square of gleaming white pinned 
to the door. One of them struck a match and 
cupped it in his hands before the paper. They 
saw marks upon its surface. 

“ Hey, Sheriff! ” one called. “ C’mere, quick! ” 

The entire group of deputized men and cow- 
punchers mingled together before the closed door, 
animosity engulfed in their common curiosity. 
The ranchman, the foreman, and the sheriff 
crowded forward to "decipher the find. Car¬ 
ruthers could hardly focus his mind upon the 




Missing — One Cowpuncher 


195 


matter, with young Montague looming large in 
his thoughts. 

The paper proved to be a message, brief and 
cryptic. 

Dear Sheriff: 

It is the cream of several curdled jests that 
you should be hunting me. Did finding out that 
I was worth ten thousand dollars make you 
think I ought to be safely locked away at night ? 
Sorry I couldn’t stay to bid you goodby again. 

I trust it doesn’t happen a third time. I have 
learned much from you, particularly a well 
rounded lesson on headwork and gratitude. 
Perhaps I may be allowed to some day explain. 

Until a more propitious meeting, 

“ J. M.” 

u Damnation!’’ ejaculated Carruthers uglily. 
“ I dunno what he means by all this gingerbread 
but I can tell yuh that we’ve let Nightbird git 
away from us.” 

This statement caused a distinct reaction. Cries 
of wonder, of unbelief, of demand rang out. 
Even the members of the posse were astounded 
at the turn of events and at the sheriff’s infuriated 
words. 

“Gosh! How clumsy,” sympathized Curly. 
“Almost in th’ daytime, too.” 

“Have you any proof of your statement?” de¬ 
manded Montague, senior. 

“Not jes’ yit,” reluctantly admitted Carruthers, 
fumbling with his beard. “ But that’s th’ theory 
I’m followin’ an’ it seems to be showin’ results.” 



196 


The Round-Up 


“And now,” grinned Jack hungrily, slipping 
squarely before the angry officer, “just what has 
this to do with me?” 

But Carruthers was angry now and in his 
badgered position he became reckless. 

“Yuh?” he exclaimed, raising his head and 
peering down owlishly and belligerently at his con¬ 
fronted “Yuh. Oh, yeah, yuh. Well, where 
was yuh on th’ night uh th’ nineteenth uh last 
month — th’ night th’ station agent was mur¬ 
dered? Huh?” 

“I was — let me see, I was m Lebanon that 
night until twelve o’clock.” 

“Kee — rect,” smiled the sheriff sweetly, strok¬ 
ing his beard triumphantly. “Yuh was in town, 
Myers was killed that night, uh knife was found 
with yore initials on it in th’ cashbox uh th’ ex¬ 
press comp’ny’s safe, an’ yuh was seen to lose at 
roulette that night. Now can yuh see any con¬ 
nection, young feller?” 

“No,” smiled Jack coldly. “I can’t.” 

“ I gotta explain it, have I?” inquired the sher¬ 
iff caustically. “Well, is or ain’t yore initials 
J. M.? Do yuh or don’t yuh carry uh stag- 
handled knife? An’ where is yore knife?” he 
concluded dramatically. 

“Here,” snapped the young man swiftly, and 
he produced his knife and held it in the rays of 
the lantern that Sing Li brought closer. 

“ Lordamighty! ” cried Carruthers wildly, his 
eyes taking on a beautiful glassy cast as he stared 



Missing — One Cowpuncher 


197 


at the implement before him. “ Didn’t yuh lose 

— I mean, ain’t that uh different knife?” 

“Jes’ what are yuh talkin’ about?” queried 
Harrison keenly. 

“ Damned if I know,” shouted Carruthers 
furiously. “ I got uh knife jes’ like that an’-” 

“Why don’t yuh arrest yoreself on suspicion 
then?” suggested Frank innocently. 

The sheriff glared. His ire made him so obliv¬ 
ious to personal danger that he so far forgot him¬ 
self as to make a very emphatic statement. 

“I got uh knife jes’ like that — initials an’ all 

— in my office,” he stated distinctly. “I’m 
holdin’ it for evidence an’ Myers was killed with 
it. I don’t care nothin’ ’bout this here knife none 
whatever. Young feller, yuh gotta go back to 
town with me.” 

“Gotta go?” whispered Jack softly, and a pe¬ 
culiar gleam came into his eye. “Gotta go?” 
he repeated. 

“ Kee — rect,” snapped Carruthers, jerking his 
beard out until its end actually brushed the young 
man in the face. 

“Have yuh got enough men to take him?” 
asked Harrison softly, while Jack drew his head 
back and calmly opened his knife. 

“Now, now, Harrison,” cried the officer 
hastily, “don’t git riled. I’m jes’ doin’ my duty.” 

Then, out of the tail of his eye, he caught sight 
of the open blade and attempted to draw back. 
But the crush of men about him effectually pre- 




The Round-Up 


198 


vented this maneuver. 

“What are you doing, son?” cried the elder 
Montague sharply. 

“That bunch of alfalfa is a dang nuisance and 
Carruthers has cheated the barber long enough,” 
stated Jack rapidly. “I’m going to shave him 
right now.” And his hand shot out and caught 
the sheriff’s beard, jerking the officer over to him 
amid the wild yells of delight from the surround¬ 
ing punchers. 

“ Help! ” screamed Carruthers in a terrible 
voice. “ He’s gonna kill me. Shoot him, some¬ 
body. Help! Quick!” 

Remorselessly Jack raised his knife swiftly, 
Sing Li accommodatingly bringing the lantern 
closer. The eyes of the sheriff protruded and 
went glassy with terror. He gurgled horribly and 
his knees gave way beneath him. He slumped 
drunkenly and had it not been for Jack’s hold on 
his beard he would have slipped to the ground. 

“Wait, Jack,” laughed Harrison. “Th’ dang 
fool’s fainted with fear. One uh yuh boys get 
uh bucket uh water.” 

“Stop!” crisped Bill Montague harshly. 
“Jack!” And he caught his son’s wrist, jerking 
the young man roughly. “You’ve scared the man 
to death. Can’t you see? Come out of it.” 

He thrust his face squarely before that of his 
son and he was startled to see the complete 
stranger who stared out at him from those blazing 
eyes. 



Missing — One Cowpuncher 


199 


Slowly the glare went out of Jack’s eyes and 
the light of sanity returned. 

“My God, boy,” breathed his father. “You 
gave me an awful fear, myself. Put up that knife. 
We’ll stop this foolishness right here. It is best 
for you to go to town with this posse. If a man 
is under just suspicion — whether he is guilty or 
not — no man in this country is too big to be 
arrested.” 

Jack laughed, a queer little laugh. 

“As a sheriff,” he said, “ Carruthers is an ass. 
I do not see that I should go.” 

“Well, I’ll try to convince you,” said his father 
grimly. “ Come to one side with me for a 
moment.” 

“Say-,” began one of the hard-faced depu¬ 

ties, reaching out a hand. 

“ I was speaking to my son only,” stated the 
ranchman, and his gaze was so steely that the 
fellow stepped back in some confusion. “Get 
your chief officer in riding condition.” 

“But, Dad,” remonstrated Jack vehemently. 

The elder man interrupted him by throwing an 
arm tenderly about his shoulders and drawing him 
along out of earshot. 

After a brief interval during which Carruthers 
was helped into his saddle, they returned and 
Jack, unarmed and docile, saddled his horse and 
mounted without a word. 

“ Carruthers, hear me,” stated Bill Montague 
as the posse turned to go, Carruthers comfortably 




200 


The Round-Up 


out of reaching distance of his prisoner, “ my son 
goes with you, alone and unarmed, of his own 
volition. He is obeying the law and is under the 
law’s protection. You know me fairly well. See 
that he arrives at Lebanon safely and remains 
safe until he returns to this ranch. Understand? ” 

The sheriff nodded weakly, hanging dejectedly 
over his saddlehorn. The posse swung out into 
the open road and headed toward town. 

Montague stood gazing after them, an inscru¬ 
table expression on his face, two harsh, grim lines 
drawn about his mouth. 

“Damn Owens,” he said aloud, in seeming inap¬ 
propriateness. 

“ Plenty damns,” added Sing Li gravely. 

Eloquently silent, the entire body of punchers, 
including Harrison, turned to Montague for an 
explanation. The rancher vouchsafed them noth¬ 
ing. 

“ Bill,” said Harrison piteously, at length. 
“Yuh ain’t gonna let Jack spend uh night in jail, 
are yuh? Yuh wasn’t meanin’ that now, was yuh? 
Jes’ say th’ word an’ we’ll go git him right now. 
Jes’ say you’re jokin’.” 

“He won’t be the first DZX puncher to stay 
overnight in jail.” 

“Nope, not for bein’ drunk or something like 
that. But this is for murder, Bill. This is for 
murder.” 

Knowing that Harrison would not understand, 
knowing that he could not explain to this worried 



Missing — One Cowpuncher 


201 


old man, Montague attempted no word of ex¬ 
planation. 

“Let’s get to the table,” he said abruptly. 
“ From Sing Li’s expression I judge he is quite 
out of patience. Every blessed one of you punch¬ 
ers hit it for the chuck-house. Pronto” 

With faces averted the men filed into the long 
room that served as a dining hall, Montague fol¬ 
lowing. Eyes were downcast and the usually 
boisterous punchers were quiet and low-voiced. 
Expressionlessly the rancher seated himself at the 
head of the table, not even glancing at the mutely 
vacant seat at the other end. 

As Sing Li began pouring the coffee Harrison 
dropped his head on his arms. 

“An’ he sent him off without any supper,” he 
cried brokenly. “ Li’l Jack.” 

A suspicious moisture appeared in the ranch¬ 
man’s eyes as he glanced at the back of Harrison’s 
graying hair. But his lips tightened and his lean 
face became stern and formidable looking. 

“Hell!” whispered Frank to Curly, as he 
glanced covertly into that bleak, capable looking 
countenance. “He thinks Jack is guilty.” 

As the last of the punchers entered the chuck- 
house, the bunk-house door slowly opened. From 
the dark entrance stepped McQuirey, the missing 
cowpuncher. He smiled a faint little smile as 
he stood for an instant looking toward the lighted 
chuck-house. Then he shrugged resignedly—■ 



202 


The Round-Up 


regretfully as he slipped silently to the nearest 
corral and unerringly sought and found the excel¬ 
lent black horse that he had lamed before. The 
animal had completely recovered from his strained 
tendon and he nosed the man affectionately as he 
was being saddled. 

Leading the gelding cautiously out to the road 
McQuirey vaulted lightly into the saddle. 

“Adios, DZX,” he murmured, raising his hat 
in the darkness. “You’re a pretty decent bunch 
but I can’t say the same for your friends in Leb¬ 
anon. I’ll be sending Blackie home in a day or 
two. I can’t have horse thieving added to the 
list of my alleged crimes to worry the dear 
sheriff.” 

He spurred the responsive animal into a mile 
eating canter as he rode south toward Texas. 



CHAPTER XVI 

JUDGE RYAN CALLS 

H IS Honor, Judge Ryan, was angry. He was 
distinctly out of temper. In fact, one might 
almost call his state of mind choleric. And when 
the legal oracle of Lebanon was really aroused it 
meant an unpleasant time for someone — for any¬ 
one. For Judge Ryan had that pleasing trait of 
letting his righteous or what he at least considered 
his righteous wrath find and fall upon its victim, 
faltering not before friend and failing not before 
foe. 

He ran through the charges on the docket this 
morning with a burst of speed that outrivaled all 
of his previous records and which dazzled and 
awed his overworked clerk. The ears of more 
than one minor offender smarted unduly before 
the judge closed his book with a bang and declared 
court adjourned, completely, individually and col¬ 
lectively. He left a dazed clerk behind him writ¬ 
ing furiously to catch up with the verbal decisions 
and went home for his riding horse. 

Shortly thereafter he rode out Dallas Road on 
his big rawboned mare, his rusty coat tails flapping 
dictatorially over and behind the cantle of his 
saddle. For Judge Ryan was making a call on 
one William Montague, Esquire, ranchman and 
203 


204 


The Round-Up 


cattle king. He was making a visit that prac¬ 
tically amounted to a legal call, too. True, the 
legal authority of Lebanon and environs had no 
business allowing himself such open indiscretion, 
but then, this legal authority usually did just what 
Judge Ryan wanted to do. 

He rode up to the pair of cowpunchers who 
leaned and talked so earnestly together against 
the rails of one of the DZX corrals. They 
proved so engrossed that they failed to look up. 
This did not improve the judge’s humor, either. 
He stared down at them heavily. 

“ Say, ye two spalpeens,” he boomed out at 
length, “ shake yer legs an’ act int’rested at seein’ 
some distinguished company. Where th’ hill is 
yer boss?” 

“ Howdy, Judge,” said the pair gravely to¬ 
gether as they raised their eyes. 

“ I think he’s up at th’ house,” added one of 
them woodenly. 

“Bejabbers, but ’tis an animated bunch. 
Where’s th’ funeral to be held?” 

“ Dunno, Judge. Jes’ as soon as we can git 
hold of uh certain Irishman.” 

The judge tried to look startled. 

“Nothin’ personal in that statement, sure now, 
was they?” 

“Nope,” admitted the two men solemnly. 

“’Spose ye spill yer trouble to me?” suggested 
Ryan mildly. “’Tis barely possible than I can 
put ye right.” 



Judge Ryan Calls 


205 


“ Yuh tell him, Frank,” urged one. 

“ It’s thisaway, Judge,” complied the other. 
“About forty reasons why Lebanon ain’t Christian 
come out here last night after Jack an’ McQuirey 
on uh fishy charge regardin’ th’ murder last 
month. McQuirey seen ’em cornin’ an’ he slipped 
off. Th’ sheriff took Jack in an’ Mister Montague 
let ’em go. He wouldn’t let us put up no re¬ 
sistance atall. Now McQuirey’s gone with uh 
good hoss an’ saddle while Jack lan — lang-” 

“ Languishes,” supplied Curly. 

“-languishes in jail,” proceeded Frank. 

“Now we didn’t figure th’ new puncher guilty uh 
nothin’ an’ he shouldn’t of run off an’ left Jack to 
face th’ music. We kinda liked McQuirey, but we 

sure don’t like this way uh doin’. An’- 

an’-” 

“We don’t want Jack in jail even if th’ whole 
railroad system went dead/’ concluded Curly with 
a growl. “Gosh dang! But I’m mad.” 

“ Th’ verdict is unanimous,” declared the judge. 
“Nather do I. But just ye rest easy, b’ys, an’ 
we’ll be fixin’ things right away in spite o’ th’ 
gang what’s pestering Jack. Mebbe before th’ 
case o’ th’ murder comes to trial we can find out 
enough to make plenty o’ trouble for some busy¬ 
body.” 

With that Judge Ryan wheeled his horse and 
rode up to the wide porch of the ranch house. 
He grunted heavily as he heaved his formidable 
bulk out of the saddle. As he set foot to the 







206 


The Round-Up 


ground the big mare lowered her head and 
wheezed in relief. 

“Ye’re a domn liar, Maggie,” bellowed the 
indignant judge, shaking his fist at the stolidly 
gazing and innocent looking horse. “ I don’t 
weigh a pound over two fifty. Montague! Mon¬ 
tague ! Where th’ hill are ye?” 

“Here, Judge, in the living room,” answered 
the ranchman’s steady voice in which there was a 
hint of repressed laughter. “ Come right on in.” 

“William Montague, what in hill’s wrong wid 
ye? What d’ye mean by lettin’ Jack stay in 
jail?” flung the judge with a crescendo of rage 
and sarcasm as he approached the tall form of 
the ranchman. “ What’s th’ big idee o’ lettin’ him 
go to jail atall, atall? An’ why haven’t ye come 
right in to put up bond, outrage though ’tis ? Ye 
knew I’d see that bond was not denied ye. Ye 
waitin’ for th’ mysterious bondsman to bail him 
out, too?*” 

“Now that’s not such a bad idea — if we will 
but wait for him,” agreed Montague, winking 
pleasantly at the red-faced man before him. 
“Wouldn’t poor Carruthers’ head buzz then, like 
a mad hornet under a tumbler? You know, Judge, 
this bailing philanthropist might do that very 
thing — if we will only wait.” 

Ryan snorted impatiently at the other’s ridicu¬ 
lousness. 

“If they didn’t grab him an’ slap him into 
jail,” he said pointedly. “ Remember, his initials 



Judge Ryan Calls 


207 


are J. M., too. Besides, waitin’ be domned,” he 
burst out irritably. “What’s wrong wid ye? I’ll 
bail Jack out meself. An’ I’m ashamed o’ ye, 
William Montague, plumb ashamed. Why, I 
wouldn’t o’ known Jack was locked up if Higgs 
hadn’t spilled it to me accidental. Ye act like 
Jack might be Nightbird himself.” 

“Now you are getting down to something 
tangible,” the rancher commented quietly. 
“ Rumor is a hellish thing, Judge. Some good 
folks hereabouts already have that idea, doubt¬ 
less. And you know how hard it is to root out a 
false idea once it has taken hold. It still persists 
and crops up again and again in future years. 
You remember the story that was circulated on 
you — about you consuming the whiskey stock of 
three saloons and closing them up until a new 
shipment got here from ‘Whiskey Smith’ and in 
reality it was only one saloon.” 1 

The judge reddened. His chair protested 
creakingly as he fairly flung himself up and out 
of it. Leaning over the desk beside which Mon¬ 
tague stood, he opened and closed his lips sound¬ 
lessly, the very eagerness of his stinging, eloquent 
phrases blocking each other before they could 
tumble in sarcastic cascades from his mouth. 

“ Settin’ aside yer personalities,” he finally 
gurgled — “ye say that rumor will besmirch th’ 

1 Author’s Note: Being the closest legalized wet spot and 
having several distilleries or warehouses, Fort Smith was 
colloquially known as “Whiskey Smith” throughout the Ter¬ 
ritory. 



208 


The Round-Up 


name o’ Jack Montague? While I live? An’ me 
havin’ known his mither, a foine gentlewoman if 
they iver was wan, God rest her soul. An’ 
knowin’ his dodderin’ auld fayther right now, a 
man respected an’ looked up to in th’ cattlelands. 
Montague, ye talk like a jackass.” 

The rancher smiled slightly. Then his face be¬ 
came grim. 

“ Have you observed Jack very closely since his 
meeting with Owens that day at Blaine’s?” he 
asked seriously. 

“Not particularly,” rejoined Ryan. “Sure an’ 
why?” 

“ I wasn’t there, but Blaine told me that it was 
a glorious fight. Something wild, the something 
that I have feared for years, came to life in Jack’s 
breast that day. I actually shudder when I specu¬ 
late on what would have happened to Jack had 
he killed Owens. As it is he stands in the very 
center of the scales. One way lies self-control, 
restraint, happiness, character, and stability. The 
other is the life of — a ruthless killer. And Jack 
has immense capacities for either.” 

“ I don’t belave it,” snorted the judge abruptly. 
“ If th’ lad’s own good common sense can’t keep 
him straight sure an’ th’ girl can.” 

“ I hope so,” breathed the rancher fervently. 
“ But when people begin noticing the difference in 
him, they’re not going to put that murder past 
him — they’re not going to. put Nightbird past 
him.” 



Judge Ryan Calls 


209 


“Ye’re drunk,’’ stated the judge rudely. “I’m 
bettin’ on Jack an’ don’t ye forget it for wan 
instant. Don’t ye interrupt. Shut up an’ listen. 
Tell me how in th’ hill Jack can be taken for 
Nightbird even wan instant? Ye will be admittin’ 
that he was locked up safe an’ tight last night, 
won’t ye? Well, last night John Perth, yer neigh¬ 
bor just west o’ ye here, lost two hundred head 
o’ choice cattle to Mister Nightbird himself, ridin’ 
cloak, gang an’ all. An’ wan o’ Perth’s punchers 
was killed entirely. Does this squelch yer Night- 
birdin’ theory?” 

“ Cowpuncher killed?*’ exclaimed Montague 
gravely. “Are you sure? Unless one or both of 
the men shot at Licker-up have died, this is the 
first killing to be accredited to Nightbird, isn’t it? 
That is, outside of the murder of the station 
agent.” 

Ryan looked blank for an instant. 

“Uuumm — yes. ’Tis th’ first actual killin’ to 
come to me official attention. Now what th’ hill 
are ye drivin’ at?” 

“How sure are you that Nightbird conducted 
last night’s raid?” demanded the ranchman, 
spreading his feet apart and pointing his finger 
straight at the judge’s nose. 

The transition from defensive to offensive, 
from questioned to questioner, was so complete 
that the judge blinked. Involuntarily he raised 
his hand to his organ of smell, so hypnotic was 
that pointing, unwavering finger. 



210 


The Round-Up 


“Ye know ’tis reported that Nightbird never 
makes a raid unless he himself is present to direct 
it. He figures that’ll eliminate mistakes. An’ 
there was no mistakin’ his whiny voice so Perth 
said.” 

“All right,” Montague conceded. “ Maybe so. 
Perhaps that will lift any possible suspicion from 
Jack’s shoulders. But it doesn’t clear him of the 
station agent’s murder and the fact that his knife 
was found there.” 

“Hill’s bills an’ sivin divils,” roared the judge, 
assuming the aggressive again. “Ye are worse 
than an endless chain o’ kind-thought-great-hap¬ 
piness letters. No, it don’t clear Jack o’ Myers’ 
murder. It don’t clear him o’ bein’ a white man, 
or bein’ an American, or bein’ yer son nayther. 
But what th’ hill’s difference does that make? 
What I want to know is why haven’t ye bonded 
th’ b’y? An’ tell me, where did this young smart, 
McQuirey, go?” 

“ I haven’t the slightest idea. He took French 
leave last night.” 

“Not that I believe him implicated in th’ mur¬ 
der nayther but then he might be mixed up in this 
Nightbird business. We don’t know much about 
him.” 

“ I am beginning to think that very likely.” 

“All right. To hill wid him for th’ present. 
His bond is still up an’ Carruthers is runnin’ him¬ 
self in circles huntin’ for th’ bondsman. Here 
ye are. Sign this paper for Jack, makin’ yerself 



Judge Ryan Calls 


211 


liable for one thousand dollars in case he skips 
th’ country. I made it as light as I could an’ keep 
it lookin’ right. Gimme Jack’s gun an’ I’ll be 
takin’ it to him. I’ll send him home this evenin’ 
an’ if ye are so worried about him I’ll assure ye 
that I’ll send him home. Shut up an’ sign. Sure 
an’ I’ve enough of yer foolishness an’ I’ve wasted 
quite sufficient time. ’Twill look better for his 
father to go his bond instead o’ th’ judge before 
whom he was arraigned.” 

Montague sat down and glanced over the paper. 
Wordlessly he signed and returned it to the judge 
who pocketed it carefully and bowed very politely. 

“ Thank ye, Sorr, an’ good mornin’,” he spoke 
in honeyed accents. “Ye are very kind an’ gra¬ 
cious, ye — domned hard head.” And he had to 
chuckle to himself as he heard Montague’s laugh¬ 
ter follow him out to the veranda. 

He met the foreman of the ranch coming up 
the steps. Harrison’s eyes widened the merest 
trifle as he saw the judge. 

“ Mornin’, Judge,” he greeted. 

“Top o’ th’ mornin’, Jim,” Ryan responded, 
glancing down toward the corrals. 

The two glum and disgruntled cowpunchers 
were gone. Instantly the judge turned and eyed 
Harrison. What he saw in the other’s face caused 
him to swing quickly and look up and down the 
road. His eye caught sight of two minute trails 
of dust down Dallas Road toward the south'. He 
bent a questioning gaze on the foreman. 



212 


The Round-Up 


“Where in hill are those two young fire eaters 
goin\ Jim?” he demanded. 

“ Danged if I know, Judge,” rejoined Harrison 
sheepishly. “They jes’ stopped me as I was 
cornin’ by th’ corrals an’ told me I could give ’em 
uh week’s lay-off takin’ effect immediate or I could 
fire ’em, they didn’t care which.” He scratched 
the stubble on his chin reflectively. “They’re 
purty good cowpunchers, Judge,” he drawled. 

“Humph! D’ye think McQuirey’ll be glad to 
see ’em?” 

Harrison started and eyed his inquisitor almost 
guiltily. Then he grinned slightly. 

“ I dunno. But they’ll be powerful glad to see 
him.” 

“ I have me doubts of them findin’ him,” com¬ 
mented Ryan. “ He’s wan slick divil. I don’t 
understand all I know about him. But th’ b’ys 
were in too big a hurry, Jim. Sure an’ Jack is 
cornin’ home as soon as I can coax Maggie back 
to Lebanon an’ Patty won’t even know he’s been 
in jail at all, atall.” 

The quick light of happiness that leaped to the 
foreman’s eyes amply repaid the judge for all his 
trouble and warmed his old Irish heart all the 
way back to town. 

“Whist, Jim,” he said, lowering his voice. 
“ Do ye notice any change in th’ b’y lately?” 

“Well, he seems uh bit more reckless than he 
did,” hesitated Jim. “ But I laid that on to bein’ 
in love.” 



Judge Ryan Calls 


213 


“ I think that’s most o’ th’ story meself,” agreed 
Ryan. “ Nevertheless, to be on th’ safe side, I’m 
thinkin’ there’s gonna be hill apoppin’ wan o’ these 
days. If there is, Jim, an’ blood must flow, do 
all of Jack’s killin’ for him. D’ye understand 
me?” 

The grizzled old foreman, ex-plainsman and 
Indian fighter, solemnly held out his hand and the 
judge clasped it. 

“We’ll show that smart alec in th’ house some¬ 
thin’ yet,” growled Ryan. 



CHAPTER XVII 

AND SO DOES ANOTHER 

T HE moon had taken her station in the east 
and was on the wane, the upper right sec¬ 
tion having been eclipsed in almost a straight line, 
giving the odd impression of the brim of an in¬ 
visible hat placed on her pate at a devilish, rakish 
angle. 

The rolling, undulating open country surround¬ 
ing the DZX ranch with its heavy carpeting of 
grasses and occasional thick stands of trees like 
stately groves of a Grecian classic and its swelling 
knolls and distant circle of mountains lay like a 
ghostly fairyland in the half-light. 

The west and front sides of the various ranch 
buildings were in purple shadow and night reigned 
supreme over the country which modestly bared 
its face to the half revealing, half concealing light 
of the mistress of the skies. Hence, the un¬ 
suspected presence of a nocturnal visitor who ex¬ 
ercised great care and secrecy was not surprising. 

The man had left his horse in the gloom against 
the northwest edge of the ranch house, he himself 
creeping stealthily across the deeply shaded front 
veranda, hugging the wall of the house for greater 
secrecy. He gained the front door in silence and 
crept toward the windows of the living room. 

214 


And So Does Another 215 

- --——-..... — 

Here, the shades were drawn and it was only 
upon close inspection that the prowler could de- 
tect the faint glow of a light behind the opaque 
‘curtains. The man returned to the door and tried 
the handle gently. It was barred on the inside. 
He bit his lip in vexation and scratched lightly 
on one of the panels. There was no response and 
he pressed his ear against the barrier to listen for 
sounds from within. Almost petulantly he flung 
back his riding cloak and drew a long, slim bar¬ 
reled six shooter from its holster. With the muz¬ 
zle, from which the sight had been carefully and 
neatly filed away, he tapped lightly upon the 
glass. 

At length there came a soft shuffling of feet and 
after a pause Sing Li opened the door. He 
blocked the entrance as solidly as his slight figure 
could and calmly held up his lantern to peer into 
the visitor’s face. 

He saw a well set up, swarthy complexioned 
man with brilliant and snapping black eyes. A 
saucy pair of crisply waxed mustachios pointed 
arrogantly upward. The stranger was attired in 
the fanciful dress of a Mexican fop; bell-bottomed 
trousers with neat “V’s” laced with gold, fancy 
vest laced with the same cord, short jacket with 
lace cuffs, all of crimson velvet. A high-crowned 
ornamented sombrero, with engraved chapa and 
chin straps, sat roguishly on the back of his head. 
The riding cloak of rich material hung from his 
shoulders and partially concealed his wide car- 





2l6 


The Round-Up 


tridge belt with slender knife sheath on the left 
and tied-down gun holster on the right. Had it 
not been for the spots of grease on his vest, the 
dust which had caked in the wrinkles of his boots 
and the smell of sweating horseflesh about 
him the Oriental would have taken him for a 
bandit from an opera company. 

The visitor smiled politely at the unblinking 
and inscrutable Oriental, a row of even white 
teeth contrasting strongly with his dark face and 
mustache. 

“Wen one look through keyhole an’ weesh to 
be unobserve eet ees best to put out light,” he 
advised pointedly. 

“No makee diff to Sing Li,” informed the 
Chinaman calmly. “ Me lookee, me see. You 
know me see. Velly fine.” 

The Mexican smiled and shrugged lightly. 

“ Senor Monteegue — ees he still arise?” he 
asked softly. 

Sing Li bowed his head gravely. 

“Bueno. Put down thee light plees. I weesh 
to spik wit heem.” 

The Oriental merely glanced down at the vis¬ 
itor’s gun. The latter smiled again, understand- 
ingly, and replaced his gun in its holster. 

“To knock on thee door,” he explained. 

“Velly fine,” finally endorsed the Chinaman. 

“ Slip ’longside fiont loom, me follow.” 

The Mexican quickly entered, showing his first 
bit of haste or impatience at the Oriental’s slow 



And So Does Another 


217 


placidity by hastily closing and barring the door 
pehind him. He listened for a long moment at 
:he portal. Then, walking ahead of Sing Li, he 
paused before the door opening into Montague’s 
living room and office and tapped gently on the 
panel. 

“Sing Li?” came the clear voice of Bill Mon¬ 
tague. 

“You catchee Mexican man makee call. Allee 
same come in?” answered the celestial over the 
cloaked figure’s shoulder. 

“Very well. Admit him.” 

“Walk velly slow and makee no funny motion,” 
admonished Sing Li as the Mexican turned the 
knob and entered the room, closely followed by 
the Chinaman with one arm tucked into the other 
sleeve. 

Montague sat in an armchair before the fire¬ 
place studying a relief map of the surrounding 
country. He half turned and looked up. For a 
brief space he looked into the newcomer’s eyes. 
Then his gaze traveled slowly over the other’s 
fastidious costume, from sombrero down to the 
trim riding boots. His eyes widened the merest 
trifle as they took in the black cloak which hung 
from the Mexican’s shoulders. He arose and 
faced his visitor. 

“Senor Monteegue?” said the man with a ris¬ 
ing inflection. 

The rancher cleared his throat slowly. Then 
in a conventional tone: 





2l8 


The Round-Up 


“Si, Senor. Es Vd. meccano?” (Are yov 
Mexican?) 

“Si, si, Senor,” responded the other quickly, 
gaily. “Hablas espanol?” (You speak Span- 
ish?)’ 

“I do,” replied Montague in English. “You 
are familiar with that tongue, yourself, I see. 
You wish to see me? Won’t you sit down? Or 
will your — er—drapery interfere?” 

“Si, Senor. I weesh to spik wit you in pri¬ 
vate,” and he jerked his head slightly toward the 
immobile Oriental who had not removed his eyes 
from the newcomer since entering the room. 

“ You may proceed. Sing Li has been with me 
for years and we understand each other perfectly. 
That is the reason he has stood within arm’s reach 
of you with one hand up his sleeve. Sing Li, I 
do not think I have anything to fear from — 
from-” 

“Pancho Diaz — my name, Senor.” 

“ --from Senor Diaz. Place another chair 

before the fire. Will you remove your cloak, 
Senor?” 

The Mexican shrugged. 

“ I weel seet down. I weel retain my cloak,” 
he said as he took the proffered chair. “ Shall 
I speak in Spanish?” he asked in that language. 

“You may. Sing Li understands Spanish, 
however.” 

“ I weel spik Inglees,” announced Diaz resign¬ 
edly. “ I have tell you my name, Senor. My oc- 





And So Does Another^ 


219 


lupation-” he shrugged gracefully, “—she 

;es making dinero. I have come to talk wit you 
U one bueesness of importance to you.” 

' “Well?” 

“You have eet ees a vaquero and a son who 
lave arrest for murder, Si? Thee sheriff he have 
possession of thee knife which he use, Si? 
“Well?” 

“You weesh thee public to know who really 
keel thee station agent although they may not 
suspect your son? You weesh to know thees thing 
yourself, Si?” 

“Well?” . 

“ Pancho Diaz can help you,” said the Mexican 
complacently. “But, Senor, eet ees you can say 
something besides ‘ well ’ ? ” 

“Are you coming to me with definite proot • 

I have a very strong suspicion as to what bunch 
of shorthorns were implicated but I have no actual 

proof.” -, , 

“Alas, Senor. I have no proof by your honor¬ 
able courthouse standards, but I have eet ees a 
way. You weesh to free your son. 

“ For your benefit, Senor Diaz,” replied Mon¬ 
tague impatiently, “let me inform you that my 
son is upstairs in bed right now. 

The Mexican arched his brows in surprise. 

“They allow you to make bail? 

“ I still possess some influence,” said Montague. 
“Ah, bueno. But for how long, Senor? And 
thee stigma? She steel remain, Senor.” 





220 


The Round-Up 


“ Well ? What have you discovered ? ” 

“ I know who keel Myers and I know how, 
when and why,” said the Mexican suddenly. 

“All right. I’m listening.” 

“The murderer had a dummy—what you call 
— package in the safe and he call on thee agent 
at ten o’clock on thee night of thee nineteenth. 
Thee agent knew hees caller and he admeet heem 
and open thee safe heemself for thee package. 
Then — pfsst! He ees keel wit knife Jack Mon- 
teegue have lose, thee safe ees rifled, the pack¬ 
age ees remove, and thee knife she ees leave. The 
charge, Senor. ees weak but thee evidence ees 
strong.” 

The rancher nodded thoughtfully. 

“ I had figured some such method of perpetrat¬ 
ing the deed. You know it to have been done in 
this manner?” 

“ I do, Senor.” 

“Which one was it? Tell me, was it Owens?” 

The rancher’s voice grew edged, metallic, and 
his hands gripped the arms of his chair. 

“No, eet was not Senor Owens. Nor yet was 
eet hees henchman Senor Carruthers,” replied 
Diaz sadly. 

“Merciful God,” groaned Montague. “Tell 
me who it was then, man.” 

“Eet was Senor Carter.” 

“What! The gambler? Are you positive?” 

“Si, Senor,” responded the Mexican, calmly 
rolling a delicate cigarette and eyeing it with the 



And So Does Another 


221 


air of a symmetrical expert. 

“ Show me your proof.” 

“I have none,” rejoined Diaz airily. 

“ Then what is your motive in telling me this ? ” 
demanded his host in complete exasperation. 
“ You lead me to expect much and you tell me but 
little.” 

A heavy frown crossed the swarthy face, the 
little mustachios seeming almost to bristle with 
rage and indignation. 

“ Carramba! ” he ejaculated, his rolling r’s 
sounding like a snaredrum. “You would ask a 
Latin thees question?” He folded his arms and 
glared fiercely at the American. “Motive? A 
Latin may have many motives but they are all of 
one sex.” 

“Bah!” retorted the ranchman shortly. 
“ Don’t get melodramatic with me. If you can’t 
prove Carter guilty I ask what you expect me to 
do?” 

“Trap heem. Make heem confess. Then, 
Senor, keel heem or hang heem, as you weel,” re¬ 
turned Pancho Diaz indifferently, proceeding to 
light the slender roll of tobacco that now passed 
his inspection. 

“ I can’t do it. Some of us do abide by the law 
occasionally around here,” said Montague causti¬ 
cally. 

“Es Lastima! (What a shame!) You, amigo f 
are thee loser,” rejoined Diaz coolly. “A scoun¬ 
drel always has thees advantage — he goes ahead 




222 


The Round-Up 


wit hees schemes where thee honest man hesitate. 
Some day I hope to find an honest man who weel 
step across thee line of thee law for hees rights. 
He weel scare thee scoundrel to death.” 

“And he won’t remain honest long, if he forms 
such a habit,” added the other sourly. 

“ Perhaps not,” shrugged Diaz, exhaling a 
cloud of fragrant smoke. “ Me, I do not see 
anything so dishonest een thee suggestion I made 
you.” 

“It’s trickery of the worst kind. And to in¬ 
sure success, very drastic means would have to be 
taken. Suppose a plot should result in the death 
of Carter and he should be innocent?” 

The Mexican threw back his head and laughed 
lightly. 

“ Nevaire, Senor. Not ees such a thing pos¬ 
sible.” 

“How do you know so much about it—with¬ 
out any proof?” 

“ I haven’t been een thees country one thousand 
year — no. But what I see I know.” 

“Are you sure you can’t tell something about 
another matter which is important to this country 
and to me?” 

Diaz paused with his cigarette halfway to his 
lips and eyed the ranchman expectantly. 

“You mean, Senor?” 

“ I mean Nightbird,” shot out Montague. 
“Don’t you know anything about him?” 

The Mexican lazily finished the interrupted in- 



And So Does Another 


223 


halation of his cigarette, blowing the smoke out 
slowly through pursed lips. 

“No,” he said at length, “I have nothing to 
say about thee gentleman. One thing I tell you. 
Study well your map. I must go.” 

“Suppose I detain you on suspicion?” sug¬ 
gested Montague, suddenly smiling. 

“Detain me?” 

Pancho Diaz canted his head to one side and 
smiled roguishly. 

“Why not? Surely you would furnish quite a 
tidbit for certain officials in Lebanon, I should 
say.” 

“Undoubtedly,” admitted the cloaked dandy 
easily, frankly, and his black eyes lighted up devil¬ 
ishly. “But thee huen Senor jests. He would 
not deesarrange hees study and awake hees men 
just to hold poor Pancho Diaz, surely.” 

“No,” admitted the other slowly, as if weigh¬ 
ing the matter. “ I don’t believe I would. But it 
would be very comical, indeed, to turn you over 
to the sheriff in place of the cowpuncher who 
escaped him last night.” 

“Indeed,” agreed the Mexican dryly. “Mil 
gracia, Senor. I weel go. You weel not settle 
matters wit Senor Carter?” 

“ I do not see how I can for the present.” 

“Alas! Buenos Nochas” 

“ Good night. Sing Li, show Senor Diaz to the 
door — and let him go.” 

“Your pardon, Senor,” murmured Diaz po- 



224 


The Round-Up 


litely, flashing the imperturbable Oriental a smile. 
“ I come in thee door. I do not think we are dis¬ 
turb. Nevertheless, eef you weel put down thee 
lights for one moment I weel go out thees window 
here.” 

The host made a sign to the expressionless 
Chinaman. At once Sing Li turned down the 
lamp wicks and blew out the lights. With only 
the soft glow from the fireplace to light his de¬ 
parture the midnight visitor slipped lithely 
through the end window and was gone. 

Montague lolled back in his chair, his eyes idly 
following the Oriental’s slight figure as Sing Li 
proceeded to relight the lamps and stir up the fire 
the feel of which was becoming grateful at night. 
The ranchman ruminated over the queer inter¬ 
view. He understood much regarding the Mexi¬ 
can’s call but in truth the discussion had been in¬ 
tangible. He was thankful that Jack had not been 
present and heard the accusation against Carter. 

He frowned into the inscrutable yellow face 
whose owner so calmly poked at the fire. 

“ Diaz has done nothing but point out a certain 
man for me to hate, Sing Li,” he mused. “A 
designated person for me to punish for the little 
station agent’s peace of mind, and he gave me 
nothing to work with. The situation is not bet¬ 
tered a bit.” 

“Velly fine,” nodded the Chinaman in sage 
agreement. “Bimeby mebbe business pick up. 
You holdum.” 



CHAPTER XVIII 

MAC GREGOR GAP 

P ERHAPS forty miles due south of the DZX 
ranch, where Dallas Road wound up into 
the foothills, a wide cleft in the circling rim of 
mountains formed a natural gateway to Texas. 
There was a pleasantly high, wide plateau here 
from which one could look southward toward the 
Red River and the Texas border or northward 
into the rich and diversely productive valley of 
Richelieu County. The entire site of this high, 
wide place in the road had been appropriated by 
a red-faced, red-haired, fishy blue-eyed, broken¬ 
nosed individual who went by the name of Sandy 
MacGregor. 

The man had settled down on this natural pass 
like a buzzard to his roost and in time the place 
had assumed his name. MacGregor Gap consisted 
of a good spring, plenty of shade, a continual cool 
breeze even in the hottest of weather, one ex¬ 
ceptionally well stocked saloon and two long ram¬ 
bling shed-like buildings other than the whiskey re¬ 
sort. One building was an eating and sleeping 
quarters for two-legged animals; the other was 
for four-legged beasts. 

Both structures set somewhat back from the 
road, toward one mountainside, so as not to de- 
225 


226 


The Round-Up 


tract any traveler’s attention from the saloon. It 
is highly probable that more than one of Sandy 
MacGregor’s ancestors had been highwaymen or 
keepers of toll-gates as he experienced not the 
slightest qualm or twinge of conscience, nor yet 
great difficulty in plying his trade of stopping each 
and every traveler, who did not halt of his own 
accord, on one pretext or another. After the way¬ 
farer had been cajoled, bullied, or talked out of a 
part or all of the wealth upon his person in ex¬ 
change for food, drink, or lodging, whether needed 
or not, he was allowed to pass on. 

As most of the travelers were men used to 
roughness and willing to spend money on thirst, 
and as very little murderous work showed on the 
surface, MacGregor Gap continued to exist and 
its owner to thrive. Aside from squatting on the 
property on both sides of the highway, running a 
business of unenviable reputation, Sandy Mac¬ 
Gregor was noted for his cultivated Scotch burr 
and his fierce pride in the “bonnie hielands 
over-r-r-r th’ sea ” although he had never been any 
closer to Scotland than Macintosh, Missouri. 

There was a natural stone bench at the top of 
the rise looking northward and, after MacGreg¬ 
or’s place became well established as a resort of 
questionable import, it became the custom for a 
keen-eyed watcher to sit here with his back against 
unyielding rock, a spyglass to his eye, and gaze out 
on the wide expanse of country toward Lebanon, 
Pelton, Weston and Licker-up. Needless to say, 



MacGregor Gap 


227 


the country south of MacGregor Gap needed no 
watching as the spot was comfortably on the north 
side of the state line. 

It must have been four o’clock in the afternoon 
three days after the two DZX punchers had 
headed south on a hunting vacation that the soli¬ 
tary watcher on the plateau gazed long at a dust 
cloud that approached the foothills. He raised 
his glass and focused it down upon the disturbance. 
Through the lens he traced the wind-swept dust 
cloud far to the left, showing that the riders had 
come into the main road below the Rankin ranch. 
After a long scrutiny he slowly arose and strolled 
lazily toward “ Sandy’s Tavern.” 

He entered the long, low room which, for a 
saloon, was singularly clear of reek and smoke, 
thanks to the breeze and the open windows. Lean¬ 
ing against the foremost end of the bar the look¬ 
out rapped sharply for attention. Almost in¬ 
stantly he got it. The noisy place grew silent and 
several particularly villainous appearing patrons 
eyed him anxiously. 

If the Mexican Dollar saloon of Lebanon could 
assay a high test of vicious human nuggets, 
Sandy’s Tavern could easily have made affidavit 
to ownership of the mother lode of viciousness. 
A careful observer would have immediately 
checked off not less than five professional killers, 
nine horsethieves and treacherous petty scoun¬ 
drels, and three murderers, not to mention the fact 
that they were all lusty villains and MacGregor 



228 


The Round-Up 


the most lusty of all. 

“Anybody here wanna dodge two cattle punch¬ 
ers that look kinda like gunmen?” inquired the 
lookout casually. 

“Wher-r-re they fr-r-om, Slim?” demanded 
MacGregor in his grating voice. 

“ Richelieu County. Travelin’ light. Headin’ 
south. Be here in half uh hour.” 

No one moved from their places. Two or 
three men glanced at each other and laughed. 

“ Guess they can coom along, Slim, lad. Dinna 
fash yersel’. Ye’ll be seein’ mor-r-re o’ th’ 
Rr-r-ichelieu puncher-r-rs in th’ days to coom, I’m 
thinkin’. They might coom lookin’ for-r-r a lost 
coo bar-r-rn or-r somethin’. D’ye ken?” 

Slim “kenned” with a slight shrug of his shoul¬ 
ders and returned to his post. It was none of his 
business. He was paid for the keenness of his 
eye and not for the keenness of his repartee. His 
job was to watch the road and the rangeland and 
report. This he did and here his obligations 
ceased. 

It was all of a half-hour later when the two 
horsemen topped the last rise and jogged onto 
the plateau of MacGregor Gap proper. The look¬ 
out was not in sight as they rode past the rock 
bench — being safely ensconced in a great crevice 
on the side of the stone away from the road— 
but their observing eyes noted the seat and the 
wide expanse of country the view commanded. 

“Have uh peep at th’ unfoldin’ glories uh th’ 



MacGregor Gap 


229 


range, Mister Matthews,” offered Frank, making 
a congressional flourish with his arm. “ Observe 
th’ panee-ram-mic vistas uh beauty fadin’ into th’ 
distance like yore month’s wages over th’ tables at 
Lebanon. Note th’ clarified an’ rarefied view uh 
th’ luxurious valley. An’ speakin’ uh Lebanon, 
yuh can almost pick out th’ site — yuh can see th’ 
thickness uh trees along th’ river — an’ that’s 
close on to fifty miles.” 

“ Not to mention uh sweet view uh th’ trail jes’ 
below us,” added the other dryly. “ I reckon 
they’re expectin’ us at th’ tavern. I’ve heard uh 
th’ place although I ain’t never been here. Make 
sure yore gun is loose. Let’s go an’ be received, 
cowboy.” 

“One thing,” mused Frank thoughtfully as they 
rode on to the saloon and tied their horses at the 
well-lined hitching rack, “ they oughta know who’s 
gone through here and who ain’t. Gosh! I’ll say 
holdin’ uh reception for us.” 

They halted in the doorway and gazed carefully 
about at the pleasant company. They became the 
cynosure of all eyes, eyes hard v^ith suspicion. 

“ Frank,” murmured Curly out of the corner of 
his mouth, “ if we was on th’ road to Hell, I’d 
say this was th’ halfway house.” 

“I think we’ve come more’n halfway,” replied 
Frank soberly. “ McQuirey wouldn’t of never 
stopped here. He couldn’t of been that tough.” 

“Then, if he went south through here, he went 
at night.” 



230 


The Round-Up 


“If he come through atall.” 

“But he musta gone through some place,” 
argued Curly. “We’ve done beat all th’ trails 
south uh th’ DZX an’ they ain’t nobody seen him. 
He musta gone through an’ he musta been goin’ 
fast.” 

“Well, this ain’t no place to talk. They’re 
gettin’ restless ’bout us now. Le’s sit down an’ 
moisten up uh li’l.” 

“ I’d rather stand up. I believe it’s healthier,” 
declined Curly. “Le’s get outa th’ door,” and 
he sauntered in, casually leading the way to the 
near end of the bar and placing himself squarely 
at the end of the counter. 

An ominous quiet hung over the place as the 
beetle-browed bartender waddled up to the new¬ 
comers and leaned heavily on the bar, leering at 
them suggestively. He set a bottle and two poorly 
washed glasses before the pair at a significant 
motion of Curly’s. In the silence that held the 
gurgling liquid could be heard all over the house 
as Curly poured it. 

Halfway down the bar was a fair complexioned, 
blue-eyed boy who was perhaps eighteen years of 
age. His features were almost classical in their 
regular beauty and his hands were slim and girl¬ 
ish. This gentle appearing product of the South¬ 
west, this seeming child in the midst of such raw, 
quivering wickedness, this mere baby in this den 
of iniquity was known as “the Cherub.” 

The Cherub was a very precocious youngster, 



MacGregor Gap 


231 


being the most deadly and heartless gunman 
among those present. He had started his career 
at the age of ten when he had killed his father 
with a .22 rifle in return for a thrashing. Since 
then he had climbed steadily into prominence 
among the hardened element, becoming a young 
demon with his efficiency with a six-gun. It was 
rumored among the uninitiated that he was a lieu¬ 
tenant of Nightbird and that he had a strong crav¬ 
ing for the leadership itself, and, were it not for 
the extreme youth of himself and the organization, 
he would have shot his way to its head ere now. 

Whether or not this was true no one knew. In 
this at least Nightbird was excellent. He had 
certainly established and maintained a fair condi¬ 
tion of secrecy. If true, it is doubtful if the 
Cherub could have lasted thirty days as a leader 
for, beyond his cold-blooded six-gun propensities, 
he was but a callow, inexperienced youth. Then, 
generally a regular killer has no real capabilities 
for leadership because of his utter incompatibil¬ 
ity and his very lack of vision and imagination. 

Due to this lack of reasoning and his bull¬ 
headed disregard for any and all consequences, 
the Cherub had established a very pronounced 
reputation for touchiness and suffered acutely 
from aggravated megalomania. It is probable, if 
rumor were true, that Nightbird foresaw a pos¬ 
sible use for just such an irresponsible lieutenant 
who was such a gun-fighter but not a thinker. 
Ordinarily such a man makes a useless tool. 



232 


The Round-Up 


As Curly set the bottle down and Frank lifted 
his brimming glass the Cherub strolled easily for¬ 
ward. He halted several paces away from the 
two wary punchers and planted his feet squarely, 
hands swinging easily and lightly at his sides. 

Calmly Frank squinted at his liquor, but acutely 
feeling the proximity of the man behind his back. 
He ignored the footsteps, depending on Curly who 
stood, one hand clutching his glass still on the 
counter, the other resting on his hip. 

“When strangers comes in here it’s uh genera] 
custom to set ’em up to th’ house,” drawled the 
Cherub softly and ominously, his clear voice as 
flawless as a young girl’s. 

Frank turned in surprise at the youthful voice, 
his face a mask of ludicrous surprise. Curly kept 
his gaze upon the youth. 

“ Why, hullo,” said the former. “ ’ Scuse me, 
sonny. I’ll swear I didn’t see yuh. Barkeep, yuh 
got any sody pop for my boy here?” 

“Haw!” shouted a delirious soul seated at a 
crude table between two windows. Even in his 
cups this jovial rogue could appreciate such a re¬ 
fined, subtle jest. 

A vivid flush dyed the Cherub’s beardless 
cheeks. Besides all that he was and was not, 
being a youth, ridicule bit into his soul like acid. 
It seemed that he merely pointed his hand, so 
rapidly did he draw and fire, and the hilarious 
one lurched forward, his face a picture of pitiful 
surprise. Heavily, drunkenly he fell across the 



MacGregor Gap 


233 


rough table, knocking bottles and glasses to the 
floor in a series of tinkling crashes. 

“Ah!” breathed Curly ecstatically. “Uh real 
live killer! Go on an’ do yore stuff, cowboy, I 
got him covered. A even break wouldn’t do you 
no good here atall.” 

Frank nodded slightly, never removing his eyes 
from the surprising youth before him. The 
Cherub flashed a scornful, burning glance about 
the room as if waiting for anyone to take up the 
matter and daring any one else to laugh. Not a 
person moved. The youth brought his gaze back 
to the man before him, shoving his gun back into 
its holster with an effortless flip. 

“I surely begs yore pardon, Mister,” stated 
Frank softly, a gentle smile on his lips, half-closed 
lids covering his hard, cold, merciless brown eyes. 

His life was hanging by a thread, his life and 
Curly’s, that he knew. Yet for this he had no 
thought. His mind was concentrated on the cal¬ 
loused boy before him. For carefree, jovial, easy 
going Frank was facing a type of being for whom 
he had no sympathy or mercy — a soulless killer. 

“ I begs yore pardon,” he repeated. “ I sure 
made uh hi-ah mistake. Yuh ain’t no innocent 
infant. Huh uh! Yuh takes uh strong drink. 
Barkeep, trot out uh shot uh carbolic acid for this 
warm baby.” 

The Cherub seemed to twitch all over at this 
deadly insult. Before he could move, in fact 
almost before the DZX puncher ceased speaking, 



234 


The Round-Up 


a cold rasping voice came from the far end of the 
bar and the intervening barkeeper dropped flat on 
the floor. 

“ Dinna stir-r-r, Cher-r-rub, or-rye ar-r-re a dead 
mon. Bide a wee till yon laddie at th’ end o’ th’ 
counter-r lays his six-shooter-r-r up on th’ bar-r-r.” 





CHAPTER XIX 

A MEXICAN INTERLUDE 

W ITHOUT moving a muscle or by any 
means betraying the agitation he felt, Curly 
realized his helplessness with a sinking heart. 
Without looking down the length of the bar he 
knew that he was covered by Sandy MacGregor 
himself. It turned him sick to think that he had 
failed Frank, that he was forced to abandon him 
to the mercy of that young, smooth-faced killer. 
He was loathe to take his gun off of the Cherub, 
almost wishing that he could let MacGregor shoot 
him, if by that arrangement, he could still guard 
his companion. 

In the stillness that ensued, while at least three 
minds were racing furiously, Curly slowly turned 
his head and met the ugly, close-set gaze of 
MacGregor. The harsh features of that villain¬ 
ous face burned themselves into the retina of his 
eyes. He read mockery yet utter ruthlessness in 
the saloon keeper’s hard stare. They were 
trapped. 

It was at this rather stressful moment that the 
slight jingle of spurs was heard and an immacu¬ 
lately dressed stranger stepped upon the thresh¬ 
old. He took in the situation at a glance. At 
sight of the two rigid punchers a wide smile of 
235 


236 


The Round-Up 


slowly dawning recognition and delight crossed 
his lips. He swept his high crowned sombrero 
from his head and took a quick step forward, plac¬ 
ing himself directly between the motionless killer 
and the tense cowpuncher who dared not take 
their eyes off of each other. 

“Ah!” he exclaimed in joyous surprise. “Eet 
ees my huen amigos, Frank Henson and Curly 
Matthews. Senores, your frien’ Pancho Diaz ees 
beside heemself wit joy. Comrades, I salute you. 
Nevair have I seen you seence that gala day een 
VeraCruz. Where you have been all thees times? 
You leeve een thees country now, sif How long 
you have been here? Ah, eet seems but a day 
since — your pardon, Senores. Thees ees my 
frien’ thee Cherub. He ees thee best and queeck- 
est shot een thee entire Southwest — and that ees 
one grand compliment among thee so good marks¬ 
men here. Cherub, thees are my frien’s, Senores 
Henson and Matthews. What you do? Haze 
my frien’s? For shame.” 

Curly relaxed gently and leaned against the bar. 
The strain had been great and the sudden release 
found him curiously weak. He took in the new¬ 
comer without moving his head. He saw a slim 
and graceful Mexican — a Mexican that he had 
never seen before in his life. 

Frank was undergoing the same bewilderment 
but he faced the new arrival without batting an 
eye. A delighted smile appeared upon his face 
and he simply radiated surprised pleasure. 



A Mexican Interlude 


237 


u Pancho Diazl Yuh slick rascal, yuh. How 
glad I am to see yuh.” 

“Ah!” the Mexican returned the smile. “I 
knew you would nevair forget your poor frien’,” 
he beamed happily. “Senores, let us dreenk. 
What you do, my frien’s? Where you go from 
here? ” 

“We’re workin’ for th’ DZX outfit up near 
Lebanon,” responded Frank. “We’re ridin’ 
south just now-” 

“Ah! ” exclaimed the Mexican, tilting his head 
to one side and laughing knowingly. “ What you 
have done now, you sly dog? Betray your em¬ 
ployer’s daughter or dreenk up hees best whees- 
key?” 

And he poked Frank roguishly in the ribs, 
laughing heartily, a number of the listening ruf¬ 
fians joining in at the coarse jest. 

“No,” corrected Curly, grinning. “We’re 
after uh fellow that did.” 

“Jealous, eh?” interrogated Diaz. “’Tees 
thee same old Curlee.” 

“This fellow was slender an’ good lookin’ an 
had th’ gift uh gab an’ was ridin’ uh coal black 
boss with th’ DZX brand,” described Frank, re¬ 
covering his poise. 

“Ah, thee rascal! And he ees going to thee 
Texas?” 

“We don’t find any trace uh him so far.” 

“What one grand pitee! Let us dreenk, Se¬ 
nores. Eet weel help us to theenk,” and he linked 




2 3 8 


The Round-Up 


arms companionably with the Cherub and Frank, 
pressing and pulling them with sociable intent up 
to the bar. 

The very outrageousness, the unprecedented 
brazenness of his action in introducing two gun- 
fighters to each other just as they were ready to 
blow each other into eternity, coupled with the 
lack of rapid mental action on the part of the 
Cherub, carried over the lethalness in the atmos¬ 
phere. The Cherub faced the bar reluctantly; but 
he faced it, and slowly the spellbound denizens in 
the background came forward, all save that one 
still figure sprawled so grotesquely and so quietly 
over the table. 

“Yeah,” grunted Curly. “ Belly up, men. Th’ 
drinks is on us. Le’s all drink carbolic acid. 
Barkeep, git up offa that dirty floor an’ dish up 
yore strongest he-man poison. Who’d uh thought 
uh meetin’ Pancho here? We thought yuh was 
still dodgin’ th’ rurales down in Mexico. Yuh 
remember that night th’ three of us beat up th’ 
police force, Pancho?” 

“Si, si. Thee Senor has thee very great mem¬ 
ory,” laughed Diaz reminiscently, loosening his 
riding cloak and letting it slide from his shoulders, 
catching it behind him dexterously with one hand. 
He raised his glass quickly and pounded on the 
bar for attention. MacGregor himself assisted in 
waiting on the long line of drinkers and then all 
faces turned toward the Mexican. 

“ Senores! A toast to my old frien’s here. To 



A Mexican Interlude 


239 


all merry hearts and bold hands wheech take that 
wheech ees not given freely; To all gay dogs, 
bold lovers, and fierce fighters; To one who ees 
not wit us een daylight.” 

“ Uc-oh! ” murmured Frank. “ Nightbird, sure 


u Shut up an* drink,” whispered Curly tersely. 

The toast electrified more persons than Frank. 
It stirred even the smouldering Cherub. Every 
right arm was raised and raw spirits trickled down 
leather-lined gullets. Curly set his glass down and 
clutched at the bar, fighting for breath. 

“Wow!” he finally managed to gasp, and the 
Cherub smiled disdainfully as he put down his 
glass without a grimace. 

“What’s th’ matter-r-r, laddie?” inquired 
MacGregor solicitously. “Would ye like to 
weaken it a wee bit?” 

“Weaken it?” gagged Curly. “Brother, th’ 
Pacific Ocean couldn’t. I need relinin’ with fire¬ 
clay.” 

This sally brought forth rude shouts of laugh¬ 
ter. Good humor was completely restored. The 
tears came to Frank’s eyes as he returned his own 
container to the bar and he could not control a 
slight whiskey shudder. 

“Now, about your fugeetive, Senores,” re¬ 
sumed Diaz conversationally, not allowing too 
long a silence. “ Me, I can tell you nothing about 
your man. Weel you describe heem carefully?” 

Frank complied with a good description of 




240 


The Round-Up 


McQuirey. From the various effects his words 
produced he knew that more than one man pres¬ 
ent had seen or heard of the talkative puncher at 
one time or another, probably over the affair of 
his arrest for murder. 

The Mexican’s quick, black eyes moved from 
one face to another as Frank talked, as if seeking 
information for the two punchers. His lean, dark 
face radiated sympathy and his little mustachios 
seemed almost to droop despondently when 
there was no response. He turned to MacGregor 
with an eloquent gesture of his hands. 

“No mon o’ that deescr-r-ription ha’ passed 
thr-r-ough MacGr-regor-r Gap,” the saloon 
keeper asserted positively. “An fur-r-rther-r- 
mor-re, we ha’ not seen a black hor-r-rse for-r 
weeks.” 

“Tckl Tck! )} clicked Diaz through his teeth 
with his tongue. “ Eet ees thee great pitee. Weel 
you go on, Senores, or weel you be returning? ” 

The two cowpunchers looked at each other. 
MacGregor might or might not be lying. This 
Mexican dandy might be leading them astray for 
all they knew. But if McQuirey had gone on, 
they would never catch him north of the Texas 
line now. If he really had not passed through the 
Gap, there were miles and miles of country within 
the circle of mountains that they had not yet cov¬ 
ered and where the fugitive could easily be hiding, 
not to mention the many other roads and trails 
which led out of the valley over the mountains. 



A Mexican Interlude 


241 


“ I reckon we’ll be siftin’ on back,” said Frank 
slowly. “Yuh ain’t ridin’ our way, are yuh, 
Pancho? ” 

“ I have thee great sorrow, but I cannot. Per¬ 
haps,” and he winked broadly, “ I weel come and 
see you before thee very long time and maybee we 
weel ride together like before, si? Don’t forget 
Vera Cruz, Senores. Come! I weel go wit you 
to the horses.” 

“ Here, barkeep,” called Curly, spinning a 
twenty dollar gold piece down the bar to the evil¬ 
looking attendant. “Take yore change outa that 
an’ if they’s enough left, set ’em up to th’ house 
again if th’ stuff won’t set th’ place on fire. An’ 
for goodness sake, git that sawdust outa yore eye¬ 
brows. 

“Gents, howdy. We might come back for uh 
longer spell with yuh one uh these days. We ain’t 
been run outa Lebanon yet though an’ we’re still 
ridin’ easy on th’ range,” and he too winked 
broadly at the company inclusive, having taken 
his cue from the insinuations of the subtle-minded 
Mexican. 

Sandy MacGregor nodded his head in a mirth¬ 
less grin and motioned a couple of men to the dead 
man at the table. As the two punchers went 
through the door they saw the Cherub calmly 
push the unfortunate man’s body to the floor and 
occupy the vacated seat. 

Pancho Diaz walked beside their horses to the 
rock bench which as before was vacant, this time 



242 


The Round-Up 


because of the descending dusk. Here the punch¬ 
ers made as if to pull up their ponies and ask their 
debonair protector a flood of questions which 
fairly burst their skins with curiosity. 

“ Don’t stop, Senores,” the Mexican forestalled 
them coldly. “ I reesk my life and my standing 
wit MacGregor to save you. You played up to 
my leads grandly, but I must do some muy pronto 
explaining when I go back. Ride fast, ride queeck, 
and I weel stand here unteel thee night she pro¬ 
tect your backs.” 

“But, say-” began Frank. 

“ But nothing, Senores,” interrupted Diaz 
shortly. “Eef you owe me thee obligation for 
my so poor assistance you weel repay me by going 
now.” 

Wordlessly the two unsatisfied punchers spurred 
their mounts downward into the gathering night. 
Twice they glanced back and after the Mexican’s 
figure was obscured in the darkness they saw the 
calm glow of his cigarette staring unwinkingly 
down at them. 

“ Pancho Diaz!” exploded Frank at last. 
“Vera Cruz! Vera Hell! I never seen that 
greaser dude before in all my whole put-together.” 

“ But yuh was sure glad to see him this evenin’,” 
added Curly. “An’ so was I.” 

“Vera Cruz!” reiterated Frank disgustedly. 
“The’ only Vera I can remember had red hair 
and danced at th’ Bright Star saloon. Curly, they 
sure is somethin’ fishy ’bout th’ whole business. 




A Mexican Interlude 


243 


First, where’d this spig come from? Did he come 
up from th’ Texas side? Naw, he couldn’t of jes’ 
arrived. They knowed him up there. ’Course 
I’m glad he stuck his snoot in jes’ when he did 
an’ like he did, but he wore uh black ridin’ cloak 
an’ he talked awful damn funny. Curly, I betcha 

that feller is Nightbird. Only- 

“Cowboy,” interrupted Curly abruptly. “Git 
goin’. I stepped off over my head three or four 
miles back.” 




CHAPTER XX 

A CHINESE SOLUTION 

I T ALWAYS afforded the DZX punchers 
great merriment when Sing Li dressed to go 
marketing. Although the DZX ranch boasted a 
provision storeroom that rivaled the stock of many 
a retail store there were occasional shorts on the 
want list that were purchased in smaller quantities 
than flour and sugar. Hence, it was the steward’s 
custom to make bi-monthly trips to Lebanon for 
delicacies. 

He invariably wore his loose-fitting jacket of 
yellow. His cue, whiph he wore in a long, hanging 
braid on the ranch, he always wound tightly upon 
his head and covered with an old battered Stetson 
hat. His soft, heel-less house slippers he would 
regretfully change for a pair of rubber overshoes. 
He topped the whole attire with an old opera 
cloak that had been discarded by Montague’s wife 
many years before, after finding out the status of 
the Muses here in the Southwest. 

Because of confectionery favors the punchers 
would fight for the privilege of hitching a team 
to the buckboard set aside for Sing Li’s use when¬ 
ever he appeared before them in such a garb. 
Then, however, they would all gravely form a 
critical double line to the buggy, and, walking 
244 


A Chinese Solution _245 

through a perfect barrage of pointed comments 
and suggestions, the Chinaman would calmly take 
his seat behind the horses and go bobbing down 
the road looking for all the world like an an¬ 
achronistic nightmare. 

On the morning following the visit of the Mexi¬ 
can to Montague, Sing Li surprised the men by 
appearing before them in his official regalia at 
breakfast. 

“ When catchee bleakfas’ some good lilly boy 
want cakee? Velly fine. Hitchee team flo Sing 
Li. Allee same eatee cold lunch Sing Li fixee 
good suppee. You likee? Yes. Velly fine,” 
conversed the Oriental blandly. 

The elder Montague had not come down to the 
chuck-house for breakfast, Sing Li having served 
him before donning his formal dress. Jack, who 
was rising from the table in company with the 
foreman, turned to eye the yellow man. 

“You just went to town last week,” he com¬ 
mented suspiciously. “What are you going in 
for today?” 

“ Havee implotant business. Catchee gleen 
gloc’lies flo cowboys. Keepee off scluvy. You sav¬ 
vy? Yes. Velly fine.” 

“ Now see here, yuh crazy chink,” stated Harri¬ 
son, swinging the slight form around and gazing 
into those polished and uncommunicative mirrors 
of jet, “if yuh go and get your danged yeller hide 
in some kind of Oriental trouble on top of what’s 
stewin’ up now an’ we have to come in for yuh, 



246 


The Round-Up 


I’ll be pretty danged mad. You savvy? ” 

“Velly fine,” smiled Sing Li blandly. “You 
want hitchee team?” 

“That beats me,” said Harrison wearily as he 
watched the bobbing heads of the pair of horses 
the Chinaman drove going along the road. “ First 
one and then another has uh streak of insanity. 
Now th’ yeller chatterbox is off his base an’ we 
ain’t got no cook. I won’t be surprised if I see 
th’ cows flyin’ ’round th’ treetops by mornin’.” 

Jack smiled sympathetically. 

“ Let’s go up to the house, Jim,” he said, “ and 
talk with Dad. We can at least tell you why I 
went back to Lebanon with th’ posse night before 
last.” 

The first stop Sing Li made was at Fielding’s 
Wholesale Produce Company where he tied his 
team with an intricate knot. 

“ Fillum up — cabbage, fluit, gleen stuff,” he 
waved from one of the clerks to his wagon. “ You 
savvy?” and he shuffled off down the street. 

Going directly to the courthouse he hobbled up 
the short flight of steps to the first floor and be¬ 
gan looking for Judge Ryan. He found that in¬ 
dividual just closing morning court. He stood at 
the door until he caught the judge’s quick eye and 
then bowed gravely, pointing toward Ryan’s ad¬ 
joining office behind the judge’s bench. Withdraw¬ 
ing, he shuffled down the corridor to the room in 
question. 



A Chinese Solution 


247 


“Why, hello, Sing Li,” greeted the legal 
arbiter of Lebanon when he came upon the pa¬ 
tiently waiting Oriental. “ Sure an’ what brings 
ye in to see me today? Ye want to import a dozen 
wives? ” 

“No, thankee, Judge. Catchee plenty double 
alleady. Clooks bad. No needee cooks. Mebbe 
Judge Lyan want catchee clook who kill station 
agent Myel? You makee Sing Li think so when 
you talk Missee Montague.” 

“Ye’re domn whistlin’, me b’y,” concurred the 
judge heartily. “ I’m achin’ to get me hands on 
that gintleman.” 

“ Velly fine. If Sing Li findee and catchee, you 
takee? ” 

“Ye unconverted haythen, ye! What’s goin’ on 
behind them black eyes, I wanta know. So ye’ve 
decided to take a hand in th’ game yerself, eh? 
Sing Li to th’ rescue! Sure, an’ I’ll slap th’ spal¬ 
peen in jail so quick ’twill make his head spin.” 

“Sheliff no letee get away?” queried Sing Li 
anxiously. 

“I should say not,” snorted the judge., “Not 
if I get my hands on him. I’ll hang him for good 
measure too. What d’ye know, Sing Li?” 

“ Makee allight? Mebbe Sing Li — yes. Sing 
Li fixee. Sing Li pletty well know who killee 
Missee Myel. No ploof yet. Sing Li findee. 
Makee fight. Catchee plenty ploof. All kind 
of talk-talk. Some thinkee this, some thinkee that, 
mebbe somebody leally know. Yet no can plove. 



248 


The Round-Up 


Sing Li know, too.” 

“Just what d’ye mean, exactly?” frowned 
Ryan, leaning forward and studying the smooth, 
placid face before him. 

“Sing Li know” explained the Chinaman pa¬ 
tiently. “Yet, no got ploof. Me findee clook — 
makee mad—fight. If Sing Li light, makee con¬ 
fession. If Sing Li long—” he shrugged “—po’ 
China boy.” 

The judge turned his gaze up to the ceiling, a 
startled expression on his features as understand¬ 
ing grew upon him. He looked askance at the 
Oriental, yet he could not withhold his admira¬ 
tion. 

“I’m domned!” he exclaimed. “Ye’ve got to 
walk careful, Sing Li, me b’y. This is a white 
man’s town, y’know. Ye are not in th’ heart o’ 
some Chinese temple.” 

The little yellow man nodded slowly, closing 
his eyes in complete understanding. 

“Who is th’ man, Sing Li? And how did ye 
figure it out?” 

“ Judge Lyan no woily. Sing Li thinkee. Pletty 
soon findee smalt man thinkee allee same Sing Li. 
Then Sing Li know. Now catchee.” 

“All right,” smiled the piqued judge sweetly. 
“ If ye are so domned smart, go ‘ catchee ’ an’ I’ll 
take charge o’ th’ culprit.” 

“Judge no get angly with Sing Li,” soothed the 
Oriental. “Sing Li tellee. You savvy Missee 
Caltel? Findee at Texas Hotel, at Mexican 



A Chinese Solution 


249 


Dolla’ saloon mebbe. You savvy him?” 

“Caltel? Calt — Oh, ye mean Carter? The 
gambler? Is he-•?” 

Sing Li nodded and the judge pursed his lips 
thoughtfully, frowning as his mind went back over 
the past weeks, seeking to dovetail unconnected 
bits. 

“Now Judge Lyan findee and sittee in back of 
saloon. No wolly, Sing Li findee too. Then Sing 
Li come In and — Judge Lyan see evelything. 
Judge bettee go now. You savvy? Yes. Velly 
fine.” 

And without further parley he turned and 
shuffled out. 

“Sure an’ I’m domned,” ejaculated the dum- 
founded judge. “ What’s all this poppy-cock I 
hear about th’ circumlocution o’ th’ East in com¬ 
parison wid th’ direct methods o’ th’ Occident? 
Sure an’ that man didn’t know Sing Li. An’ since 
when did ye start takin’ orders from a yeller 
haythen, Michael Ryan? Sure an’ this amounts 
to nothin’ more nor less than bein’ accessory be¬ 
fore th’ fact. Sure an’ what th’ hill do I know 
about that?” 

The Mexican Dollar saloon had two bids to 
make for fame and fortune. First, it was the first 
wet spot just off of Dallas Corner and therefore 
drew a goodly number of patrons from among the 
punchers, prospectors, and floaters who housed 
their mounts in the sheds and corrals which occu- 




250 


The Round-Up 


pied the corner site and extended out Dallas Road 
for several hundred yards. In short, it had first 
chance at their money. 

Second, the Mexican Dollar shared with the 
Bright Star the distinction of being the only two 
saloons solely and admittedly owned by Mr. 
Horsehead Owens. That he may have held con¬ 
trolling stock in other like establishments was 
easily probable, but these two places were his par¬ 
ticular pets. They differed in management, in 
appearance, in operation. They were designed to 
do so. The Bright Star was operated luxuriously 
for the elite; the Mexican Dollar for the 
bourgeois. 

Because of its location the Mexican Dollar was 
never quiet, w T as never empty. Life, mankind 
rough and ugly, crude and humorous, cruel and 
gentle flowed constantly between its doors. Be¬ 
cause of the continuous uproar a head bartender 
of perfect equanimity was a prime requisite. Such 
a one was “ Dutch Pete,” stolid, imperturbable, 
emotionless. 

Mr. Carter, the gentleman of sinuous grace — 
both mental and physical — stood at the rear end 
of the bar, facing the front of the saloon. There 
was a quart bottle and a small glass beside him. 

And he was doing that which no gambler and 
particularly Mr. Carter should do. He was 
getting drunk. 

His was that temperament which plunged into 
the depths of despondency under the influence of 



A Chinese Solution 251 

too much liquor. He became utterly silent and 
still; an unshakeable melancholy would claim him. 
In this condition, with his habitual steady nerves 
and reptilian grace, he seemed more like a snake 
than ever — like a rattler that has just shed its 
old skin and is viciously irritable because of the 
iscales still covering its eyes. 

Carter was drinking neat whiskeys with the pre¬ 
cision of clockwork and watching the service of 
Dutch Pete with gloomy eyes. He was oblivious 
to the jeers, the noise, the raucous laughter of the 
place. He heard nothing. The only things that 
lived about him were his whiskey hand and his 
eyes. A Choctaw Indian was relating an ex¬ 
perience with such painful lack of humor that his 
istory brought shouts of hoarse laughter that left 
him unmoved and -which Carter did not even 
notice. 

“Huh? Accident?” the buck was saying. 
“Heap queer. No unnerstan’. Johnny Roastin’ 
Ears buyem bike-cycle. Takum long time mebbeso 
learn not fall off. Johnny learn. One day takum 
big bottle hooch — one quart, mebbeso half-gal- 
ion. Takum big drink. Ugh! Johnny feel good. 
Go takum long ride. Hop on bike-cycle an’ push 
on stirrup. Run jes’as smooth. Heap fine. Ride 
long time down road. Stoppem. Takum big 
drink firewater. Jump on bike-cycle. Ugh! 
Heap fine. Run like lopin’ pony. Johnny 
Roastin’ Ears feel fine. 

“ ’Long mebbeso pretty soon stoppem ’gain. 






252 


The Round-Up 


Takum ’nother big drink firewater. Damn good 
hooch. Climb on two-leg machine an’ go. Ugh! 
Ugh! Heap wonderful. Jes’ as smooth. Fly 
like bird. Pretty soon Johnny see big bridge come 
runnin’ uppum road. Johnny no lettum bridge 
run over him. Turn out quick. Ugh! Get jes’ 
as wet. Wakum up in hospital.” 

During the slapping of backs, shouts, and 
poundings on the bar that followed the grave¬ 
faced Choctaw’s denouement, a weird appearing 
little figure in battered old hat and antique opera 
cloak convulsed with laughter and backed into the 
gambler at the end of the bar just as Carter was 
raising his brimming whiskey glass. The liquid 
spilled all down the front of the man’s immaculate 
shirt, the glass shattering on the floor. 

It needed but such a trifle to cause the snake 
to strike. 

Without even a curse Carter reached forward 
and clutched the clumsy one’s cloak collar. His 
eyes glittered evilly and his slender fingers 
crooked like talons as he swung the other around, 
lifting the small figure completely off its feet by 
bracing himself against the bar. A flicker of 
surprise, of inimical joy crossed his eyes as he 
recognized the timid and apologetic features of 
Sing Li, steward of the DZX ranch. 

“You!” he whispered hoarsely. “You dirty 
yellow chink, you ruined my silk shirt. Damn you, 
take off your own jacket, wet it and clean my shirt. 
Quick! D’you hear?” 



A Chinese Solution 


253 


And he assisted in preparing the Chinaman for 
the menial duty by ripping the cloak from the nar¬ 
row shoulders and flinging it to the sputum- 
covered floor. 

“No can do. No can do. Missee Caltel’scuse 
Sing Li,” moaned the frightened little Oriental. 
“No mean luin clothes. Sing Li buy shilt flo 
Missee Caltel.” 

“ I said to take off that jumper and clean my 
shirt,” hissed Carter. “Pronto.” 

The other noises of the saloon subsided as the 
little drama unfolded. A bulky but inconspicuous 
individual hidden behind his paper at one of the 
rear tables quietly put down the news sheet and 
leaned forward intently. 

“No can do. No can do,” wailed the China¬ 
man. “ Sing Li no washee woman. Sing Li velly 
solly. Missee Caltel ’scuse China boy. Sing Li 
buy new shi-” 

The gambler reached forward and snatched the 
old hat from the Oriental’s head. Sing Li’s cue 
tumbled down in a long thick braid. 

“Take off your hat when you address me, you 
yellow nigger,” snarled Carter furiously. “Now, 
take off that shirt and get busy.” 

The Chinaman stood still, wringing his hands 
together helplessly. The poison of the whiskey 
mingled with the poison at the gambler’s heart’s 
core; and that horrible desire to hurt, to torture, 
possessed his soul. With a swift motion he leaned 
forward and slapped the cringing figure across the 




254 


The Round-Up 


face with his hand, a stinging, biting blow that 
snapped the Oriental’s head back. 

An immediate change came over the yellow 
man. His figure straightened and his arms folded 
across his chest, one hand in each sleeve. An air 
of dignity mantled him and his black eyes bored 
into the inflamed and narrowed pools of cruelty 
set in Carter’s face. He spoke, choosing his 
words carefully. 

“To think Sing Li, son of so many honolable 
ancesto’s, live to see the day a white dog lay hands 
on. him. White man, you allee same dog and son 
of dog. You claven clook.” 

Instantly the killer flame leaped high in Carter’s 
eyes. His face drained white at the acid insult. 
He licked his lips as if to moisten them for speech 
that would not come. 

“ Son of pig ancestors,” he stated in a hoarse, 
insulting voice, summoning his neglected education 
to phrase an insult more deadly to an Oriental 
than mere Occidental curses, “you are going to 
die. Is there anything you want before the buz¬ 
zards pick your filthy bones and coyotes howl 
over your dishonorable grave?” 

The white man had all of the advantage and 
no one knew it better than the Chinaman. Any 
negro, Indian, or Asiatic who dared to lift a finger 
against a white man without having been half- 
killed first and having ample reason besides, even 
then, could assure himself of a pleasant necktie 
party. Sing Li comprehended all this. He had 



A Chinese Solution 


255 


known beforehand that he would need a white 
protector, regardless of right or wrong. 

In deliberately crossing Carter there was a de¬ 
cided peril for the Oriental. Carter was exactly 
like a snake. He was not one of the physically 
brutal type who like to mutilate before killing, 
thereby giving their victim a chance to strike back. 
The gambler would not play with Sing Li. When 
he decided to strike, he would shoot once. He 
would shoot to kill — and Sing Li would have to 
let him take the initiative. 

As calmly as though all this were not so, as 
though he were watching frying batter over his 
cook stove, Sing Li stared steadily into the cruel, 
exultant eyes before him. He did not open his 
lips until he saw that Carter was tensed and about 
to draw. The East had not taught her sons to 
think, to observe and to calculate even the last 
grain for naught. 

There was a complete hush; no one seemed to 
breathe as they waited for the Oriental to precipi¬ 
tate his own demise. Then Sing Li spoke 
suddenly. 

“Yes,” he announced clearly, his voice carry¬ 
ing to every corner of the saloon. “I want to 
know why you kill the station agent.” 

Carter started violently. The movement which 
he had intended should line his gun upon the 
yellow man’s heart was false. His revolver 
barked and an ugly red streak appeared as if by 
magic upon Sing Li’s left cheek and scarlet blood 



256 


The Round-Up 


began to trickle slowly down his face. 

The Chinaman’s right hand flipped out of his 
left sleeve and pointed at the other’s breast in an 
imperious gesture. Everyone gazed at the digni¬ 
fied form of the celestial and waited for the sec¬ 
ond shot from the gun of the accused gambler. 
It never came. 

Carter gasped and caught at his throat con¬ 
vulsively. He swayed and clutched at the bar 
with one futile hand. Gurgling horribly he fell 
heavily to the sawdust-covered floor, falling, fit¬ 
tingly enough, upon the Oriental’s cloak. A keen 
stiletto quivered in the little hollow at the base 
of his neck, having pierced both bow tie and col¬ 
lar in its passage. 

As realization dawned upon the stunned crowd 
they set up a mad, sullen roar. 

“Git uh rope! Git uh rope!” was the pre¬ 
dominating cry as they surged forward. 

Dutch Pete froze in the act of pouring a liba¬ 
tion of whiskey, the liquid running out of the over¬ 
flowing glass and spreading in a golden pool over 
the bar, his astounded eyes on the Chinaman — 
he could not see the stilettoed gambler on the 
floor. The yellow heathen had worked some 
Chinese magic. And for once Pete’s placid 
equanimity was shaken. 

There was a bull-like bellow, and the bulky 
figure at the table heaved itself up and sprang 
forward. 

“Not wan single step farther, ye domn spal- 



A Chinese , Solution 


257 


peens, or I’ll give ye thirty days for riotin’. Sure 
an’ I saw th’ whole shebang an’ right here an’ 
now I’ll pronounce this Chinaman not guilty.” 

The bottle dropped with a crash from Dutch 
Pete’s nerveless grasp. 

“ Gott im himmel!” he gutturaled. “Der 
Yudge.” 

The fiery old Irishman faced the potential mob 
angrily, his unquestioned authority holding them 
back where guns could not. 

“ Sing Li, me b’y,” he said, turning to the 
Oriental, “th’ back door is unlocked. Ye better 
haul yer freight out to th’ ranch an’ stay hauled 
till I make these idjuts see a little reason.” 

“ Missee Caltel wishee speak,” rejoined Sing 
Li imperturbably, pointing down to the dying 
man. 

With a quick exclamation Judge Ryan knelt 
over the gambler. He made as if to reach for 
the knife. 

“No — don’t pull out. It’ll drown — me. 

About Myers-” whispered Carter, and the 

judge and Sing Li bent close to catch the words. 
“About Myers — chink is right. I killed — him. 
Left young Montague’s — knife as — clue. It — 
is — big — deal. Whiskey — got me. Makes 

mean. About scheme-” he ceased, gurgling 

unpleasantly. 

A hairy hand had reached down swiftly and 
jerked the knife blade from the confessor’s throat. 
Carter jerked convulsively and the blood gushed 





258 


The Round-Up 


forth in a regular jet. His eyes rolled wildly. 
He opened his mouth widely to speak, and he 
strangled on his own blood. 

“ Hill’s bills an’ sivin divils,” roared the judge, 
starting up. “What misbegotten imp grabbed 
thot knife?” 

There was no response save for a surly shift¬ 
ing of feet as he glared around the close semi¬ 
circle of faces. Owens suddenly pushed his face 
forward. 

“Hal Brewer an’ Horsehead Owens, ye heard 
th’ dead man’s confession,” spoke Ryan aggres¬ 
sively to the first men he readily recognized. 

The man Brewer nodded silently. Owens 
looked at the judge for an instant and then spoke: 

“Just came in. Didn’t see it all. Carter ad¬ 
mitted killing agent, though.” 

“Then ye seen enough,” snapped the judge 
immediately. “Wid me an’ Sing Li here that 
makes four of us. Don’t any o’ th’ balance o’ 
ye roughnecks ever try to swear any different in 
my court — if ye want to continue to reside in 
Lebanon. I guess I’ll be goin’ wid ye now, Sing 
Li.” 



CHAPTER XXI 

TO CAPTURE NIGHTBIRD 

I T WAS four nights later that a pair of weary 
cowpunchers rode up to the DZX corrals and 
dispiritedly flung themselves from their saddles. 
A hubbub of noise from the chuck-house beckoned 
them to a hot supper. 

“Dang, but I’m tired, dusty, an’ hungry,” 
grunted Frank. “We been gone five or six days 
for nothin’. We ain’t done nobody any good. 
Le’s go eat.” 

“Wait. They’s uh light up at th’ house. Le’s 
go see if Mister Montague feels any different 
now. Mebbe we can convince him.” 

They went up to the quarters of the Montagues 
and entered. The rancher was alone in the big 
living room, standing with his back to the fire¬ 
place, an intense and thoughtful frown on his 
face, a square of paper in his hand. His eyes 
lighted up at the appearance of the weary 
punchers. 

“Howdy, boys,” he greeted. “Have any 
luck?” 

“Naw,” responded Curly disgustedly. “That 
slim cowpuncher sure musta burned uh hole in th’ 
horizon gittin’ away from here.” 

Montague smiled slightly. 

259 


26 o 


The Round-Up 


“ Mister Montague, what we has come to see 
yuh about,” began Frank slowly, hesitantly, “be¬ 
fore we go to supper is—-” 

“Haven’t you been to the chuck-house yet?” 
interrupted the rancher. 

“Naw, sir.” 

“Good. Go ahead.” 

“What we come to see yuh about,” faltered 
Frank again, “is why yuh thinks Jack might be 
guilty uh any such doin’s in Lebanon as would 
remotely connect him with th’ stuff Carruthers was 
claimin’. Yuh oughta know they’s somethin’ 
crooked ’bout it. Ain’t they anything we can do 
to prove it to yuh? Didja git Jack back home 
yet?” 

He fell silent under the rancher’s steady gaze. 
He shifted his feet uncomfortably and twirled 
his hat unhappily. Curly’s face assumed a set ex¬ 
pression as he stared vacantly at a spot two feet 
above the ranchman’s head. 

“Who gave you the impression that I con¬ 
sidered my son guilty of anything?” at length 
asked Montague in a cool, level tone. 

“Nobody, nobody,” gulped the miserable 
puncher hastily. “ But yuh talked so funny that 
night an’ yuh made Jack go on to town with th’ 
sheriff even after he done showed his knife.” 

“Yuh see how it was, Mister Montague,” in¬ 
terposed Curly soothingly. “ We didn’t want yuh 
to do no misjudgin’ an’ so we went huntin’ for 
McQuirey.” 




To Capture Nightbird 261 

“ Do you hotheads realize that if I hadn’t done 
something that night that there would have been 
gunplay? And that, regardless of what we think 
of Carruthers, we’d have been resisting the law, 
and Judge Ryan would have been hard put to 
help us?” 

The two punchers considered this for a space. 

“Why hunt McQuirey?” continued Montague 
relentlessly. “ Do you consider him guilty of this 
murder? Do you think I’d have kept him if I 
had thought so?” 

“ Huh uh,” they admitted. 

“Well?” said the rancher sourly. 

Curly squared his jaw and looked his employer 
straight in the eye. 

“Well, we didn’t see no use in him slippin’ off 
an’ leavin’ Jack to face th’ music, if yuh wanna 
I know.” 

“I see,” grunted Montague heavily, but he 
smiled and the two punchers felt more at ease. 
“You boys left too hastily, though. Jack came 
home the evening you set out on ycur Quixotic 
pilgrimage. I bonded him, of course. Why, even 
Judge Ryan didn’t wait until I went to town to do 
it but brought the bond out here for me to sign. 
The very next day Sing Li went to town and had 
a clash with Carter the gambler and killed him in 
self-defense. The fellow confessed to the murder 
just before dying. 

“Now you want to know if you can do some¬ 
thing. Jack is completely exonerated and so is 




262 


The Round-Up 


McQuirey. Yet, you can help. Late this after¬ 
noon Jim found three stray, unbranded yearlings 
out on our range afflicted with blackleg and run¬ 
ning with our herds. And here in my hands I 
hold a brief note warning that the Lebanon 
National Bank is to be looted tonight.’ 5 

“My gosh!” whispered Curly, awestricken. 
“We ain’t been nowhere an’ we ain’t seen noth¬ 
in’.” 

“Ain’t it jes’ our luck?” moaned Frank. 

“ Don’t feel so sorry for yourselves. You 
haven’t missed it all by a whole lot. You say that 
none of the boys know you have returned as yet? ” 

They shook their heads in unison, indicating 
that Montague was right. 

“Good. Wait here while I go tell Sing Li to 
bring your suppers up here quickly and quietly.” 

The ranchman stepped out and the two punch¬ 
ers sat down eyeing each other like inquisitive 
roosters. When he returned they swung to face 
him like two mannikins on the same string. 

“Nov/ then, boys, listen attentively to me,” 
Montague began seriously. “You know what 
blackleg means if it takes hold in our stock, be¬ 
sides which it will pollute the ground permanently. 
We’ve removed the sick calves but there may be 
more. Somebody may be bringing in more. We’ve 
got to stop the trouble before it starts. Tomorrow 
we will begin to inspect the entire herd. Tonight 
we start a guard at night herding. That this is 
an attempt — a rotten attempt — of some agency 



To Capture Nightbird 


263 


to wipe out the DZX herd and ruin the ground 
I do not doubt. We must guard against this on 
one hand and against Nightbird on the other. By 
the way, the rustlers killed one of Perth’s punchers 
in a raid last week. Because of this we simply 
cannot go to Lebanon on the strength of this note. 
I have reason to believe this to be a genuine warn¬ 
ing, but it might be a ruse of some kind. Now, if 
I send some of the boys they’ll all want to go. 
I can’t spare them. Do you get the idea ? ” 

“Yuh betcha,” beamed Frank, his weariness 
completely forgotten. “You want us to go to 
town an’ see ’bout this bank robbin’ business.” 

“Precisely. You will ride straight to Judge 
Ryan’s home and present him with this note and 
an explanatory letter which I will write and you 
will hold yourselves under his instructions. Fur¬ 
ther than this, don’t talk to anyone about any¬ 
thing. If we keep silent we will probably be able 
to trace this blackleg trouble to certain parties in 
Lebanon. 

“ Report to me tomorrow if this robbery is at¬ 
tempted, if Nightbird heads it, and if you capture 
him. Is this clear? Very well. And one thing 
more. Don’t stop at Blaine’s as you go in. Jack 
is there and I don’t want him to know anything 
about this. I have other work for him to do.” 

The soft-footed Sing Li entered, bent nearly 
double under a great tray. He placed the food 
on the table before the two ravenous punchers. 
They looked up at him and the little patch of court 



264 


The Round-Up 


plaster on his cheek enviously, and he solemnly 
winked at them. 

For a space there was but the sounds of hungry 
men putting away food and the scratch of a pen 
from Montague’s desk. At length the rancher 
arose and folded the two papers together. 

“ I’ll go down and saddle two fresh horses for 
you while the boys are still in the chuck-house,” 
he said, placing the notes on the table before 
them. 

The two punchers wasted no time and scarcely 
an hour had elapsed before Judge Ryan was read¬ 
ing Montague’s letter. He grew almost apoplectic. 

“Hill’s bills an’ sivin divils,” he ejaculated. 
“Wait till I get me shotgun, ye spalpeens. 
We’ll shake together a private posse thot’ll make 
Nightbird sick at his stomach entirely.” 

The quaint trio quietly made the rounds of the 
homes in Lebanon which the judge selected and 
very shortly a conclave of men assembled at the 
big wholesale house which stood diagonally across 
the street from the bank and which, it might be 
added in passing, was one of the few big build¬ 
ings and businesses that Owens the aggressive 
realtor did not own or was not interested in. 

Briefly Judge Ryan explained the situation, 
assuming full responsibility for their collective ac¬ 
tion. 

The men deployed around the dark bank build¬ 
ing quickly, to the intense relief of President 
Klein. Three of them took up their stations at 



To Capture Nightbird 


265 


the front windows of Fielding’s Wholesale Com¬ 
pany’s second floor in company with the owner 
of the business. Two men were told to watch 
from the side windows of the retail store directly 
across the street from the wholesale house and 
therefore across the side street from the bank 
itself. Three men hid themselves in the alley be¬ 
hind the banking institute. Three more of the 
posse were detailed to conceal themselves amid 
the rubbish heaps behind the saloon on the west 
side of the bank. Curly, Frank, the judge and 
the bank president quietly entered the building 
itself when the street was most deserted, slipping 
in and locking the door behind them. 

The plan agreed upon was for the four men 
within the bank to surprise the looters while the 
cordon of citizens without drew closer in, captur¬ 
ing any bandits posted outside and preventing 
escape on the part of any who might elude the 
guard awaiting them in the bank. To cover all 
possible contingencies Judge Ryan had given em¬ 
phatic instructions anent certain time-proven ad¬ 
vice— if necessary, to shoot first and ask ques¬ 
tions afterward. 

“ Sure an’ now then we’re ready for th’ hayth- 
ens,” grunted Ryan as he settled himself heavily in 
a front corner, his overloaded shotgun across his 
knees. 

“ Let ’er buck,” Curly rejoined happily. 

The bank president said nothing. He felt that 
he had very little say coming. He appreciated all 



266 


The Round-Up 


that was being done but he felt somehow as 
though he were a sort of bait for the trap. He 
sat within the paying teller’s cage, the end of a 
long cord in his nervous hand, the other end of 
which was attached to the low-burning gas jet. 
At the judge’s given word he was to pull the 
string, lighting up the long room, and then drop 
flat on the floor for certain metallic reasons about 
which he had asked for no detailed instructions. 

He glanced several times at the massive iron 
safe which stood so calmly, so stolidly at his back, 
so completely regardless of its impending rav- 
agement. He wondered how even the cold metal 
could stand so passive, could be so devoid of sen¬ 
sation, could be so indifferent under the stimulus 
of the various thrills he himself was experiencing. 

Curly and Frank sat cross-legged on the floor, 
one on each side of the house, below window level. 
Thus, not considering the partition before Klein, 
they made a rude square a trifle elongated at the 
bank president’s position. 

The rear door was somewhat to one side of 
the center, allowing greater cage room for the 
workers of the establishment. Should the ex¬ 
pected looters enter by the front door and the 
three watchers crowd them back along the cor¬ 
ridor toward the rear, they would be cornered be¬ 
fore they could open the way to the alley. Should 
they come in the rear way, they would have to 
walk forward for a distance before reaching the 
door opening into the grilled compartment where- 



To Capture Nxghtbird 


267 


in stood the safe. If this method were tried they 
would face three men before them and the three 
men from the alley who would close their exit be¬ 
hind them. Meanwhile, Frank and Curly were 
watching for attempts on the windows. 

Silence fell and the four men settled themselves 
according to their own fancy and own mental 
attitudes for a long vigil. Until midnight the hi¬ 
larious uproar from the various saloons in the 
vicinity continued unabated and the noise of many 
riders and walkers now and then flowing past the 
bank came clearly to their ears. 

“ I think we can smoke uh in,” announced 
Frank in a loud whisper. “ They won’t be nothin’ 
doin’ for uh coupla hours yet, anyway.” 

“ Silence 1 ” rasped the judge’s voice. “ Ye don’t 
know who might be listenin’. An’ don’t ye dare 
have th’ nerve to smoke. Th’ divils’ll smell it on 
cornin’ in out o’ th’ fresh air.” 

Gradually the sounds from without died away. 
They made no further comments and no noise be¬ 
yond a cautious shifting from a tiring position 
now and then. 

It must have been three o’clock and their pa¬ 
tience was worn thin when a faint tinkle was 
heard at the back door. Someone was fitting a 
key into the lock. There was a soft click and the 
tumblers turned smoothly. The key fitted the 
door and nothing remained to withhold the in¬ 
truders save the bar across the entrance. Startled, 
President Klein wondered which of his employees 



268 


The Round-Up 


could have furnished the burglars a key, providing 
anyone did. 

The straining listeners heard the slithering 
sound of metal against metal. At length there 
came the sliding of wood as the bar across the 
door was being lifted from its iron brackets. 

“The smart devils,” thought the bank presi¬ 
dent to himself. “That is a clever trick — rais¬ 
ing the bar with a strip of metal thrust in between 
the door and the casing. That is no ordinary 
ruffian’s trick. There is certainly a smart and cun¬ 
ning mind behind this. No wonder they can’t 
catch Nightbird.” 

There was no further sound but a draft of 
fresh air was felt by the waiters and they could 
visualize a form sliding in through the lower aper¬ 
ture of the partly opened door and removing the 
bar entirely. The judge waited five paralyzing 
minutes while President Klein suffered a nervous 
rigor. Then, as three figures slowly approached 
the front of the building and took substantial form 
before his aching eyes, Judge Ryan spoke. 

“Now!” he cried sharply and leveled his gun 
upon the hazily outlined figures. “Stick ’em up, 
ye imps o’ Satan. Ye’re caught.” 

The light flared up, the mantels almost falling 
from their positions, so violently had the worthy 
president obeyed his instructions. The-two DZX 
men sprang several paces forward, guns at the 
ready. 

The three new arrivals bumped into each other 



To Capture Nightbird 


269 


and then leaped apart with curses of consterna¬ 
tion. They disobeyed the judge’s admonition by 
firing immediately. The rearmost man, a masked 
figure in a black riding cloak, whirled swiftly and 
sprang for the unlocked door. The shotgun of 
the judge roared and a heavy charge of buckshot 
ruined the oaken finish of the barrier as it 
slammed shut behind the fleeing raider. 

Almost instantly there sounded answering shots 
from the alley and from the front of the build¬ 
ing. There was a thudding of many feet, the sharp 
clattering of hoofs from the side street, the noise 
of mingled shouts and cries. Then the sound of 
horses in rapid gallop. 

“ Bungled,” announced Frank disgustedly, look¬ 
ing down at the man who had not shot at him 
quick enough. 

Curly cursed quietly but artistically as he held 
his left arm tightly. One of the bandits had shot 
more true. Unfortunately, however, this man had 
stood somewhat in the line of the judge’s charge 
of buckshot and he also was down. 

The rear door was flung open and two men 
ran into the building. President Klein managed 
to overcome his abhorrence of flying lead and 
stuck his head cautiously out through the teller’s 
grilled cage. 

“ Hill’s, bills! Wot’s wrong?” bellowed the 
judge at the newcomers. “Where’s th’ cavalier 
o’ th’ trailin’ nightshirt?” 

“ Damn it, he got away,” howled one of the 






270 


The Round-Up 


wild-eyed new arrivals. “ He was as quick as uh 
fox. Ted an’ Jawn are chasin’ him now. Yuh 
see, he run out before we was quite up to th’ door 
an’ we wasn’t close enough to grab him, so we 
shot. He fell an’ we run up to him. But he 
jumped right out from under our hands an’ run 
straight across th’ alley towards th’ courthouse. 
All we got was his ridin’ cloak.” 

Words actually failed the judge. He almost 
choked with disappointed rage. 

“Le’s see th’ cloak,” said Frank quickly, shov¬ 
ing his gun back into its holster. 

He and Curly examined the article. Slowly 
their eyes met above the garment. It looked very 
familiar. In fact, they had thought it was going 
to look familiar before they examined it. 

“Well?” growled Ryan. 

u Er—it looked kinda like Sing Li’s ole operee 
cloak,” stated Frank. “That is, it did at first, but 
I see it ain’t, now.” 

“Ye’re a domn liar,” contradicted the judge 
belligerently, “it don’t look remotely like yer 
yeller opera queen’s cloak, besides which, Sing 
Li’s cloak ain’t no longer in use since thot gambler 
Carter used it for a winding sheet. So talk. 
Where’d ye see this cloak before?” 

“Judge, this here bird yuh perforated is still 
existin’,” Curly broke in. “ Mebbe he can tell us 
somethin’. They’s somebody beatin’ on th’ front 
door an’ my arm is Weedin’ to beat hell.” 

“Domn ye for-” began Ryan hotly, then 




To Capture Nightbird 


271 


he nodded. “ I guess we’ve lost Nightbird him¬ 
self. Sure an’ I can readily see why he always 
superintends a job himself to keep it from bein’ 
bungled,” he snorted. “Yes, ye better let ’em 
in, Mister Klein. It’ll be our boys as’ well as 
th’ whiskey owls what don’t sleep at nights. 
Curly, git th’ hill outa here an’ hunt up Doc 
Sawyer. After he’s through wid ye, bring him 
back here to patch up this varmint. How’s th’ 
other one, Frank? Dead? Huummm!” 

A mingled gathering of citizens, gamblers and 
members of the posse poured into the long room. 
They were brimming over with questions and de¬ 
mands and President Klein had to tell the story 
of the attempted robbery again and again. Con¬ 
spicuous among the crowd were Sheriff Carruthers 
in his shirtsleeves and Jackson the gambler, hat¬ 
less and with a green eyeshade in one hand. 

“We nailed one uh them out here in front, 
Jedge,” called a man with a rifle. “They was 
five uh them but th’ rest got away an’ took th’ 
extry hosses.” 

“What’s goin’ on here?” thundered Carruthers 
heavily, catching a half-nelson on his beard and 
shoving his authoritative way forward. 

Judge Ryan seemed to gain two full inches in 
height as he glared down on the slightly shorter 
sheriff. 

“ Niver ye mind, laddie b’y. Sure an’ th’ auld 
judge himself is runnin’ this shebang. Ye can see 
thot we’ve nipped a bank robbery in th’ blossom. 



272 


The Round-Up 


Now, corral these inquisitive mavericks an’ git 
’em outa here.” 

“Kee— rect,” agreed the sheriff more mildly, 
glancing at the DZX puncher who stood near the 
judge. “Shall I handcuff him, Jedge?” and he 
nodded toward Frank. 

Judge Ryan made such an impatient motion that 
Carruthers fell back precipitantly. His eyes fell 
upon the riding cloak the judge held and he 
started slightly. 

“Look familiar to yuh too, Mister?” drawled 
Frank softly. 

“They say Nightbird wears one,” Carruthers 
growled in response. “D’ye git him? Where is 
he?” 

“What?” cried out Jackson quickly from where 
he stood. “Did you get McQuirey? So he was 
Nightbird, eh?” 

Although the gambler’s query concerned a man 
for whom he had no particular love still it irri¬ 
tated Frank to hear Jackson implicate the miss¬ 
ing cowpuncher by publicly .coupling his name with 
that of Nightbird. And that the gambler was 
wrong Frank was almost certain. Ungrateful 
though it may have seemed to the man who had 
saved his life, the puncher felt that he could name 
the mysterious night raider. 

“We didn’t git him,” snapped Ryan irritably. 
“ Now, git out.” 

As the gathering crowded reluctantly out Frank 
bent over the outlaw who had stopped one or more 



To Capture Nightbird 


273 


of the judge’s slugs. The man’s eyelids fluttered 
weakly. One of the men who had guarded the 
alley rolled up the cloak in question and placed it 
under the wounded man’s head. The bank presi¬ 
dent himself brought a glass of water. 

The DZX puncher made a perfunctory exami¬ 
nation. Apparently the fellow suffered most se¬ 
verely from a creased mark on the side of his 
head. His other wounds appeared to be trifling 
flesh wounds. 

The man was a stranger to everyone present — 
a sandy-haired individual with a stubble of tow- 
colored hair on his ugly face. He looked more 
like a disgraceful, disreputable tramp cowpuncher 
than a bad-man. 

After a glance into the fellow’s primitive visage 
Frank winked broadly at the men about him and 
knelt beside the stricken raider. Taking the prof¬ 
fered glass of water from the president’s hand he 
held it to the lips of the outlaw. The touch of 
the liquid revived the bandit and he opened his 
eyes stupidly. 

“Quick!” Frank said tersely to one of the 
men leaning over the head of the fallen man, 
“ slap th’ bandage to that awful hole in his head 
before he moves, George.” 

George, being fairly quick of wit and anxious 
to redeem himself for his share in the fiasco in the 
alley, caught up a fold of the cloak and jammed it 
quickly against the side of the outlaw’s head. The 
man raised his hand instinctively but Frank 



274 


The Round-Up 


quickly caught it and pulled it down. 

“Lay still,” he commanded in a low serious 
voice. “Yuh mustn’t exert yoreselF. Yuh’re 
sinkin’ fast. Is they anything yuh want to confess 
to th’ judge here ’fore yuh cross th’ line? This 
here is Judge Ryan.” 

A hopeless expression entered the fellow’s face. 
“I — I’m not agoin’ tuh — tuh die, be I?” he 
whispered helplessly. 

“ I’m afraid yuh are,” murmured Frank softly, 
as if in awe at the near presence of the grim 
reaper. “We all gotta go, yuh know,” he offered 
sympathetically. 

“Sure an’ ’tis a shame, me b’y,” added the red¬ 
faced judge as he kneeled beside the victim, draw¬ 
ing a pencil and an old envelope from his pocket. 
“ Come, tell me anything ye might be wantin’ to 
ease yer soul of before yer strength leaves ye. 
Was that really Nightbird in here wid ye?” 

The wretched fellow gulped miserably. 

“Yessir,” he whispered. 

“An’ what’s his real name?” 

“ I dunno. I ain’t never heard. I ain’t never 
even seen him ’thout his mask. None uh us does. 
I don’t wanna die. Don’t let me die. My Gawd, 
I ain’t fit to die. Help! Help! ” 

“There, there,” soothed Frank gently, all but 
overcome by the touching scene. “ They ain’t no 
use hollerin’ thataway. We’ll do our best for yuh. 
We done sent for th’ doctor. Go on an’ tell th’ 
judge some more.” 



To Capture Nightbird 


275 


“Yuh already sent for th’ doctor? Then I 
ain’t gonna die ? I ain’t gonna die! I don’t know 
nothin’.” 

“ But th’ doctor ain’t here yet,” added Frank 
promptly and meaningly. “ Hold th’ bandage 
tighter, George. My knee is gettin’ all wet with 
blood.” 

This time he had to exert some strength to hold 
down the hands of the panic-stricken man. 

“Ye say ye’ve never seen him?” pursued the 
judge gently. 

“ Oh my Gawd! ” moaned the unhappy victim. 
“Nawsir. He don’t never show up till night an’ 
then he always wears his mask an’ cloak. I don’t 
wanna-” 

“Ye mean to inform me that he never spends 
th’ day wid ye? Where does he meet ye?” in¬ 
terrupted Ryan calmly. 

“ He tells us every time where he’ll meet us 
next time. He’s always along when we do some 
work.” 

“But don’t ye have no special meetin’ place?” 

“If anything happens so’s we don’t meet or 
they ain’t nothin’ to be done for several days we 
meet up ’round MacGregor Gap.” 

“ Uummm. MacGregor Gap. Th’ dear lad 
from Scotland. We’re gittin’ on. An’ ye’ve no 
idea atall, atall who Nightbird is?” 

“ Some uh us thinks he might be one uh his own 
lieutenants in th’ day time but we dunno nothin’ 
’bout him for sure an’ it ain’t healthy to inquire.” 




276 


The Round-Up 


“What lieutenant? Ye’ve named no lieuten¬ 
ants yet? ” 

“We kinda suspects uh Mex who joined us a 
coupla weeks ago. He wears uh black cloak an’ 
he ain’t worked with us at night none yit which 
same he couldn’t if he was Nightbird, too.” 

“What’s his name?” 

“He calls hisself Pancho Diaz.” 

“Ah! ” breathed Frank to himself. 

“How many are there in yer congenial band?” 
continued the judge boringly. 

“ I dunno. It’s growin’ purty fast. Nightbird 
handles th’ whole thing hisself. T’night’s th’ fust 
time he ever miscalculated, too.” 

“ Sure an’ misfortunes come to us all,” con¬ 
soled Ryan. “So MacGregor Gap is yer lodge 
room. Don’t ye have a regular headquarters for 
th’ gang—a central stronghold? Where do ye 
take th’ stolen cattle, f’instance?” 

“There’s uh place in th’ mountings over to¬ 
ward-” 

“ Here’s th’ doctor,” bawled Carruthers loudly, 
striding in, immediately followed by the rabble. 

“Over towards where?” demanded the judge, 
ignoring the reappearance of the sheriff. 

But the wounded man’s ear, attuned for the 
welcome footfall of a medical savior, heard Car¬ 
ruthers’ words above the noise of the crowd. 

“ Lemme have th’ doctor,” he shouted desper¬ 
ately. “ Don’t lemme die. Lemme see th’ doctor 
fust off. Quick! Help!” 




To Capture Nightbird 


277 


“ Hill’s bills an’ sivin divils,” growled Ryan, 
shooting an angry glance at the sheriff. “ Doc, 
patch up this buck’s scalp wid some stickin’ plas¬ 
ter. Carruthers, ye’re so domned anxious to work, 
put handcuffs on this specimen an’ take him to 
jail, domn yer skin.” 

George dropped the edge of the cloak and the 
wounded man reached quickly toward his injured 
head. When he felt the bullet crease, sore and 
painful, yet only a bullet crease, he struggled to 
his feet furiously, mouthing foul curses upon his 
tricksters. 

Fairly roaring with laughter Frank promptly 
squelched the fellow’s anger by neatly tripping 
him. Carruthers quickly snapped a pair of hand¬ 
cuffs about the struggling man’s wrists, almost 
viciously he seemed to the watching Curly. 



CHAPTER XXII 

THE MISSING BONDSMAN 

M ister clarence higgs, deputy 

sheriff, County of Richelieu, had occa¬ 
sional flashes of what he was pleased to call “ de- 
tectiorial inspiration/’ Not inferring that Mr. 
Higgs suffered very violently with that too preva¬ 
lent disease known as inflated ego, but Mr. Higgs 
had undoubtedly heard of that bewhiskered axiom 
regarding the violent expulsion of air through 
one’s own musical instrument. 

Hence, since his immediate superior emphati¬ 
cally demanded the apprehension and further cross- 
examination of the mysterious bondsman for one 
Joseph McQuirey, tramp cowpuncher and recently 
departed for parts unknown, Mister Higgs felt 
that it behooved him to redouble his activities and 
thereby locate the elusive gentleman of the ready 
cash. It stood to reason, to everything about 
which Mr. Higgs had ever heard, that no man 
would put up that much money on even a sure 
thing without an excellent reason. 

Hence, if McQuirey were worth ten thou¬ 
sand dollars he must be Nightbird himself and 
therefore the bondsman whose initials were J. M. 
was a confederate. The murder charge was 
cleared now, though. Therefore, why didn’t the 
278 


The Missing Bondsman 


279 


bondsman come to demand his money? There 
could be but one adequate reason. The bondsman 
was scared. But of what should he be frightened? 
Nothing! Therefore the bondsman must be 
Nightbird also. 

This was ridiculous. Yet, the man might be. 
And, anyway, the sheriff wanted him. And if 
there was any importance to be attached to this 
confusing individual and Mister Higgs could lay 
his duly deputized hands upon him, especially 
after Judge Ryan and his private posse had let 
the man get away the other night, it would mean 
a distinct ostrich plume in the head-covering of 
Mr. Higgs and roseate visions of the sheriff’s 
office itself next term — providing he didn’t let 
Sheriff Carruthers confiscate his thunder. Mr. 
Higgs would be entirely too astute for that. In 
short, if Mister Jed Martin, bondsman de luxe , 
were still visible to the naked eye in daylight and 
within the confines of Richelieu County, Mr. 
Higgs proposed to find him. 

This firm resolve brought Mr. Higgs out of his 
chair standing. 

As to the modus operandi, that should be com¬ 
paratively simple to a man of Clarence Higgs’ 
cleverness. He marshalled and arrayed the points 
in his favor before him. Mr. Bondsman had a 
face that reminded Mr. Higgs of a lean and grim 
turkey buzzard, a face that had forcibly impressed 
Mr. Higgs at the time. In private, Mr. Higgs’ 
personal opinion was that Mr. Jed Martin would 



28 o 


The Round-Up 


not have carried off even the booby prize at a 
beauty show. 

Now then, he knew the man by sight and could 
recognize him, whereas Sheriff Carruthers didn’t 
even know for whom he was looking as he had 
failed to see the bondsman. As Martin was a 
stranger to Lebanon, as the murder charge was 
cleared and as he would not credit Mr. Higgs with 
such clever analysis as to identify him with Night- 
bird, he would still be running around loose on the 
prairie. Therefore there remained but one thing 
to do — go find the man. 

Just how long Deputy Sheriff Higgs’ theory 
would have held water or just how far his mental 
processes would have allowed him to expand and 
ramify his deductions without destroying his hy¬ 
pothesis is unknown and of not the slightest inter¬ 
est. Let it suffice that, with the new zeal which fired 
him, he found his man the very first crack out of 
the box and proudly returned to Lebanon, his 
charge riding peacefully along at his side. 

There was but one insect in Mr. Higgs’ oint¬ 
ment of bliss. The stranger was entirely too will¬ 
ing and too docile. There was something rotten 
and one didn’t have to go as far as Denmark to 
understand it; Nova Scotia was far enough. In 
brief, the stranger could not be Nightbird himself. 
He looked too gawky, too honest. At best he 
could only be a confederate and Deputy Higgs 
was beginning to seriously doubt that. Neverthe¬ 
less he was the man Sheriff Carruthers had been 



The Missing Bondsman 281 

strying to lay his hands on and that was something. 

Higgs had employed the simple expedient of 
describing his man to all he met and at every little 
house and shack over the sparsely settled country 
surrounding Lebanon, figuring that the unknown 
must live, exist or hide himself somewhere. Right 
or wrong in his supposition, his enthusiasm had 
not had sufficient time to die down before he 
! espied the wanted man himself pitching hay in 
Blaine’s farmyard just four and seven-tenths miles 
south of town. 

When one’s theory is substantiated, regardless 
I of how, why, or where, a slight rise in the stock of 
self-esteem is permissible and pardonable. Thus, 
Mr. Higgs marched proudly into Judge Ryan’s 
office and, like a terrier laying a succulent bone 
I before his master, presented his companion. 

“Judge Ryan, this here is Mr. Jed Martin, our 
missin’ bondsman. He works for Mister Blaine 
an’ / found him. He didn’t know we was huntin’ 
for him or he would of come in before, he says. 
Yuh remember him? Well, while yuh talk I’ll run 
down an’ git th’ sheriff.” 

Which effective little arrangement with Judge 
Ryan as a witness was Mr. Higgs’ method of pre¬ 
venting Mr. Carruthers from making any personal 
claims as to the discovery of the bondsman, should 
anything develop from this meeting. 

When the sheriff entered he looked the gaunt 
stranger over curiously, puzzledly. 

“So this is th’ mysterious bondsman, eh? 






282 


The Round-Up 


Where’d yuh come from, Mister? Where yub 
been all this time?” 

The insulting tone of the sheriff fairly made 
Martin’s muscles harden. He disliked the officer 
immediately. 

“ I didn’t know ye was alookin’ fer me,” he 
stated quietly. “ I been workin’ fer Mr. Blaine.” 

“Humph!” sneered Carruthers. “That’s uh 
blind. How long yuh been uh member uh Night- 
bird’s gang, Martin?” 

The Arkansan stiffened. 

“What d’yuh mean?” he demanded. 

“I’m speakin’ ’bout McQuirey.” 

“Well, what about him?” 

“Waal,” ruminated the sheriff, his fingers busily 
gathering in his beard like a tucker on a sewing 
machine, “didja know that yore man has run off 
an’ that yore ten thousand dollars is forfeited?” 

“ I heerd somethin’ like that,” drawled Martin. 
“But how d’yuh figger th’ money is forfeited? 
He warn’t guilty uh th’ murder now that this here 
feller Carter has confessed.” 

“ Sure an’ that’s true,” endorsed Judge Ryan. 
“ Carter’s confession cleared th’ atmosphere all 
around.” 

“ But he’s suspected uh bein’ Nightbird now,” 
put in Carruthers viciously. “ He’s suspected uh 
robbery an’ cattle rustlin’ an’ there’s one death to 
his credit besides lots uh shootin’s.” 

Martin’s eyes twinkled at the belligerent of¬ 
ficial. 



The Missing Bondsman 


283 


“That’s uh diff’rent case,” he objected. 

! “ Mebbeso,” snapped the sheriff before Judge 
Ryan could speak, “but we got yore money an’ 
ive’re gonna keep it unless yuh can produce 
jMcQuirey.” 

“How can I produce somebody I don’t know 
nothin’ ’bout?” 

“Don’t know nothin’ ’bout?” put in Higgs 
dazedly. “An yuh put up ten thousand dollars on 
uh man yuh didn’t know nothin’ ’bout?” 

“ Sure did,” agreed the Arkansan calmly. “An’ 
yuh can keep th’ money. ’Tain’t worryin’ me 
none. It ain’t mine,” he finished calmly. 

This was the last straw for Mr. Higgs. He 
icould no longer keep his jaws together, and his 
mouth hung open. 

“What!” 

The exclamation was wrung from the sheriff 
and the judge. 

“’Sfact,” grinned Martin. He was enjoying 
the consternation. 

“Sure an’ we’ve had enough o’ this pingpong- 
ing,” decided Ryan. “ Suppose ye be tellin’ us th’ 
'whole story, Mister Martin?” 

! “ Be this uh legal ’xamination? ” demanded the 

mountaineer. 

“Ye may safely consider it wan,” nodded the 
judge. 

“All right, then. I was asittin’ in th’ door uh 
Blaine’s barn that day when I heerd uh noise an’ 
looked up. I saw uh masked man in uh black 





284 


The Round-Up 


ridin’ cloak standin’ over me as close as we-uns 
is now. ’Fore I could faint or reach for uh pitch- 
fork he spoke. ‘ Do yuh want to earn five hun¬ 
dred dollars?’ he says.” 

“What day was this?” demanded Ryan. 

“Th’ twentieth uh last month.” 

“What time?” 

“’Bout noon, I reckon.” 

“ Go on,” commahded the judge, while Carruth- 
ers succeeded in getting a death grip on his 
whiskers. 

Higgs, somewhat recovered from his shock, 
was enjoying the dramatic turn of the situation 
and he rolled a cigarette with an air which he 
strove with all of his might to make nonchalant. 

“There was only one answer,” continued Mar¬ 
tin laconically. “ I said, ‘Yes.’ At that he pulled 
uh big wad uh bills out from under his cloak an’ 
counted oh ten thousand an’ five hundred dollars. 

‘ Go to Lebanon right now,’ he says, ‘ an ’ put up 
ten thousand dollars as bond fer uh man named 
McQuirey who is now bein’ held in jail. Then 
come straight back here without doin’ no talkin’ 
an’ th’ five hundred dollars is yore’s to keep.’ I 
couldn’t see nothin’ criminal or wrong in that. So 
I done it. That’s all.” 

“Can — can yuh describe th’ m — masked 
man?” stuttered Carruthers uncertainly. 

“Waal,” drawled Martin meditatively, “he 
was purty well set up. He had broad shoulders 
an’ he was quick.” 



The Missing Bondsman 


285 


“Did he have — did he have uh mustache or 
any kind uh distinguishing marks?” pursued the 
sheriff. “ Yuh know we ain’t never been able to 
git uh good description uh th’ man.” 

“I dunno,” Martin replied slowly. “He had 
uh black mask all over his face I done told yuh.” 

The sheriff sank weakly into a chair and 
clutched his beard fiercely with both hands. He 
acted queerly, as though unable to reconcile one 
fact with another. Higgs eyed his superior curi¬ 
ously. 

“ I’m thinkin’ this story kinda tears hill outa th’ 
theory o’ McQuirey bein’ Nightbird,” rumbled 
the judge thoughtfully. 

“This man is uh liar,” stated Carruthers uglily. 

Martin flushed and he swung quickly toward 
the seated man. 

“ Sheriff or no sheriff, yuh eat them words 


“ He meant th’ party who called on yuh was uh 
liar,” threw in Higgs quickly at this juncture. 
“ He lied by leadin’ yuh to believe he was Night- 
bird when he might of been substitutin’ as Night- 
bird till McQuirey could git outa jail — that is, 
if McQuirey is Nightbird.” 

“Sure an’ that’s possible,” said Ryan. “Hold 
yer horses a minute, Martin. Th’ whole thing’s 
a domn muddle. Did anywan else see th’ masked 
man, Mister Martin?” 

“Nope. An’ I didn’t git to see what he did. 
He made me go on to town first an’ when I come 




286 


The Round-Up 


back he was gone. Nobody said nothin’ to me 
’bout him an’ so I kept still like he said do.” 

“How long ye been workin’ for Blaine?” 

“ I’d been thar ’bout three days ’fore th’ 
masked man come up to me in th’ barn door.” 

“ But when ye come in to make bond ye said 
yer address was general delivery at Lebanon,” 
pointed out the judge. 

“ I didn’t know how long I was gonna stay 
there,” explained Martin simply. 

There was a pregnant silence. The Arkansan 
waited patiently. Finally: 

“Be they anything else?” he queried. 

“Do yuh know anything else?” fiercely de¬ 
manded Carruthers. 

Martin studied the sheriff for a long breath. 
He restrained his temper with an effort. 

“Nope,” he stated at length. “Nothin’ 
that yuh’d understand. Leastways ’bout this 
McQuirey-bond-Nightbird-cattle stealin’-murder- 
Carter business,” he concluded subtly, enumerat¬ 
ing the points which seemed to bewilder the 
officer. 

“All right. Git out!” howled Carruthers ir¬ 
ritably. 

The mountaineer’s brow darkened and he 
clenched his fist. 

“Whist a bit, Martin, me b’y,” Ryan soothed 
quickly. “Sure an’ ye’re not forgettin’ that th’ 
sheriff has lots on his mind an’ finds it hard to 
be civil. Don’t be takin’ offense at th’ distracted 



The Missing Bondsman 


287 


lad. Can we be findin’ ye at Blaine’s place now 
whenever we might be wantin’ ye?” 

The Arkansan relaxed. 

“ For th’ present, Judge,” he said respectfully. 
“Leastways till I git th’ urge to move on.” 



CHAPTER XXIII 

THE OUTRAGE 

S ING LI, Frank, and Curly were at once the 
admiration and envy of the DZX outfit. 
“Lookit th’ three pesky misquitoes,” derided 
the disgruntled foreman over the supper table. 
“All swelled up ’bout their rantin’ ’round an’ 
Curly nursin’ uh scratch on his forearm. Aw, 
Hell! An’ I went to town an’ couldn’t even stir 
up no excitement atall, no place.” 

Which but goes to show how little one realizes 
the train of events which lead from one’s little 
acts. 

“Shucks, Jim,” grinned Frank cheerfully, gulp¬ 
ing hastily to clear his vocal decks for action. 
“Yuh ain’t got no kick cornin’. Yuh’re such uh 
bad-man they all shy offa yuh. Yuh’re so tough 
we could make buckskin boot laces outa yore 
whiskers.” 

“There yuh are,” brightly endorsed Curly with 
an I-told-you-so air. “See?” 

“Aw, shut up,” growled Harrison disgustedly. 
“ Now that you mention it, you haven’t the big¬ 
gest complaint to register, Jim,” said Jack Mon¬ 
tague quietly. “ Look at me. I spent a night in 
jail and then Sing Li gets my man.” 

“Yuh two growlers ud kick if yuh was bein’ 
288 


The Outrage 


289 


hung,” jeered Curly unsympathetically. “ C’mon 
over to th’ bunk-house. My arm ain’t so nursed 
that I can’t deal uh wicked hand uh poker.” 

“I don’t want you men so dissatisfied,” com¬ 
mented the elder Montague. “One would think 
that blood and thunder is your meat and drink. 
Didn’t you discover three stray calves that had 
blackleg in the DZX herd? Haven’t we been on 
tiptoes ever since, especially as cattle running has 
become so popular. If we go off adventuring and 
allow rustlers or Indians to drive off our stock 
there won’t be a job to come back to.” 

“ I do get tired of stumblin’ round in th’ dark,” 
admitted Harrison. “ Otherwise I’m havin’ lots 
uh fun.” 

“ I figure we will all have lots of fun before 
this business is finished,” returned the rancher 
grimly. “ However, since you boys all want fun, 
since you crave action, since you are all frantic to 
do something, we’ll just start night herding in 
dead earnest tonight on the DZX. In place of 
two or three night riders, we’ll divide into regu¬ 
lar shifts.” 

A chorus of groans went up from around the 
table. 

“There, now see what yuh bellyachers done, 
jawin’ thataway,” bitterly complained Sleepy 
Stearns, a puncher who heartily enjoyed his 
nightly arrangement with Morpheus. 

“Let’s see — there are thirty-two of us not 
counting Sing Li, able-bodied and healthy,” con- 



290 


The Round-Up 


tinued Montague, unheeding the various protests. 
“ We start branding next week if nothing happens, 
and we start shipping our fall market steers right 
away, too. However, I guess we can manage to 
makeshift with sixteen day hands for a spell. 
That leaves sixteen of us for night duty. As it 
isn’t the most pleasant duty in the world we can 
take it week and week about. Now-” 

“I suggests Sleepy Stearns for foreman uh th’ 
first night shift,” shouted a round-faced little 
puncher, arising and grinning maliciously at the 
sleep loving cowboy across the table. 

He promptly received a response in the form 
of a squat, brown molasses jug hurled unerringly 
at the pit of his stomach. 

“R. S. V. P. if yuh dare,” shouted Stearns. 

“ Here! Here! ” called Harrison peremptorily. 
“This ain’t no girls’ boardin’ school. Lay off th’ 
sweet li’l souvenirs.” 

The door of the chuck-house was flung violently 
open and a hatless, blood-streaked, gaunt stranger 
staggered rather than ran in. He glared wildly 
around until his eyes fell upon the Montagues. A 
look flashed between them and then the newcomer 
slowly drew himself together. 

“ Mister Montague, Jack, all uh yuh, listen,” 
he shouted. “ Nightbird jes’ raided Blaine’s place, 
fired th’ buildings an’ took th’ gal. Me an’ Her¬ 
cules has come fer help.” 

An uproar resulted. Chairs were overturned as 
excited punchers leaped to their feet. His face 




The Outrage 


291 


gone white, Jack leaped upon the table and ran 
quickly down its length. Springing to the speak¬ 
er’s side, he grasped his shoulders tightly. 

“Say that again, Martin,” he commanded 
crisply. “ Speak slowly and tell it all. Talk! ” 

Harrison and the elder Montague, as one, 
grabbed heavy dishes and pounded on the table 
for order and silence. 

“About a hour ago, while we was sittin’ at 
supper, th’ farmhouse was surrounded an’ five or 
six men led by that devil in uh ridin’ cloak an’ uh 
black mask come crowdin’ right into th’ dinin’ 
room. We was completely surprised an’ didn’t 
have no guns or nothin’. 

“They grabbed Miss Patty up right outa her 
chair an’ when she screamed an’ Blaine an’ me 
jumped up th’ leader shot Blaine down an’ one 
uh them hit me from behind I guess. Anyway, 
everything went black an’ when I come to they’d 
locked us up an’ tied th’ two hired hands. We 
got Blaine to bed an’ while th’ two hands started 
to save th’ stock from th’ burnin’ outhouses I 
jumped on Hercules an’ hit it straight fer here.” 

“Is Blaine dead?” asked the elder Montague 
tersely. 

“ He warn’t when I put him in bed.” 

“Which way did the bandits go, did you 
notice?” demanded Jack. 

“They headed northwest for th’ Canadian.” 

“Let’s go, boys,” cried Jack sharply. “You 
coming, Dad?” 



2 Q2 


The Round-Up 


“You know it, son. But somebody must re¬ 
main here. Jim, will you see that-” 

“Not me. Not me,” began denying each and 
every puncher vehemently. 

“ Silence, you young fools! ” roared the rancher, 
surprising them into silence by his unwonted tone 
and volume of voice. “You’ll all stay here but 
those I name to go. And while you wait, overhaul 
your guns and saddlery. Most of us will probably 
be in the saddle before morning. Jim, you will 
see that these instructions are carried out. Jack, 
Sleepy, Frank, Harry, Pete and Jerry! You boys 
saddle up and we’ll go back with Martin here. 
Frank, you and Harry will ride on to Lebanon 
without stopping, get the doctor and notify Judge 
Ryan and the sheriff. The remainder of you wait 
for your orders here and see that you are ready to 
ride.” 

“Git yore slickers out, everybody,” added Mar¬ 
tin. “ She’s drizzlin’ now an’ she’s gonna rain 
down pitchforks an’ nigger babies ’fore mornin’.” 

“Hell broke loose — uh storm cornin’ up — an’ 
me with uh bum arm,” soliloquized Curly. “Out 
across th’ open country — in th’ drivin’ rain. 
They ain’t gonna be no trail to follow.” 

Midnight found a big gathering of grim and 
armed men at the Blaine farm. They looked 
weird and fantastic in the red glare of the dying 
fire of what had once been a well-filled barn, a 
corn-crib and several sheds. Blaine was still un- 




The Outrage 


293 


conscious, but Doctor Sawyer had stopped the 
bleeding and thought there was a chance for the 
fruit grower, the bullet having missed his heart 
very neatly. 

Judge Ryan, the two Montagues, Perth, Rank¬ 
ins, and Spaulding were holding a conference in 
the parlor, the latter three being the three closest 
ranchers. The sheriff had come out with the judge 
and doctor and he was busily deputizing all of the 
cattlemen and punchers who were intending to ride 
after the raiders. 

The storm was still gathering. It was inky 
black and ugly mutterings and sullen flashes all 
around the horizon forewarned of the fury of the 
elements when the rain did come. 

“They’ll make for the free ferry on the 
Canadian River if they are really riding west,” 
said Montague. “Unfortunately, the judge was 
unable to learn from the captured bandit just 
where the stronghold is. This may be but a false 
lead. Nightbird, you know, is as cunning as Satan 
himself. 

“As we can’t trail them in the darkness and 
the coming rain I suggest that we send out, not 
one, but two or three posses, each with a capable 
leader. For instance, suppose we send a posse 
straight to Free Ferry to overtake or intercept 
them there in the early morning? Then, for fear 
they won’t make for the ferry, the rest of us can 
form smaller posses and ride out from here in all 
directions. Whoever runs across the marauders 



294 


The Round-Up 


or their trail can send back a rider and we can all 
follow.” 

“And lynch ’em on th’ spot,” gritted Perth, a 
big, iron-gray appearing man. “When they start 
on our women I’m for not even givin’ ’em a trial.” 

“An’ they killed one uh yore punchers, too, 
didn’t they?” said Rankins. “I guess we’ve all 
lost steers an’ had money in th’ banks what has 
been looted. All right, I’m with yuh. We’ll ex¬ 
terminate ’em.” 

“Are yuh takin’ uh vote on their disposal?” 
drawled Spaulding. “ If so, let’s catch ’em first.” 

“Has anyone a better plan than mine?” asked 
Bill Montague. 

Martin strolled in, looking like a hero of ’76 
since the physician had bandaged his head. 

“I guess I’ll take the south, along Dallas 
Road,” said Jack. 

“Very well,” agreed his father. “You may 
pick up half the boys as you go by the ranch. Now, 
who wants to make for Free Ferry? Speak up, 
men. Is there any choice here, or upon any other 
direction?” 

“ I’ll be goin’ that way,” put in Martin, his 
quiet voice ominous in its calm. 

Montague turned to the mountaineer, a friendly 
beam in his eye. 

“No, old man,” he said kindly. “Much as 
you want to go, you’ll do far more good by stay¬ 
ing here and assuming charge of things for Blaine. 
Some one has to watch things, you know.” 



The Outrage 


295 


Martin nodded reluctantly. 

“How is Mister Blaine now?” queried Jack 
anxiously. 

“ Jes’ th’ same. No change,” stated Martin. 

“Well, I’ll take my gang uh punchers an’ make 
for Free Ferry,” stated Perth. “ It’s over beyond 
my stretch of land anyhow.” 

“ Good,” declared Montague. “That’s a good 
idea all the way around. Suppose you patrol your 
land and beyond that way also, Spaulding. And 
you, Rankins. That will pretty well cover the 
country west of here and will keep each outfit near 
its own stock. I will ride north with some of the 
men from here. With Jack going south, that cuts 
the raiders off from the east completely. Frank 
can go with you, Jack. Sleepy and the other boys 
here, I’ll take with me. Leave Jim on the ranch 
with part of the gang.” 

“An’ if nothin’ develops by sundown tomorrow 
ye will meet at th’ DZX for consultation,” con¬ 
cluded Judge Ryan, tying up the loose end in the 
hasty arrangements. 

“ Let’s ride,” suggested Jack grimly and he 
strode quickly out. 

On the way back to the ranch Frank repeated 
his story of his and Curly’s adventure at Mac¬ 
Gregor Gap carefully at Jack’s request. He again 
voiced his suspicion as to the Mexican’s complicity. 

“ You may set your mind at rest on that score,” 
replied Jack. “A wanton murderer like Night- 
bird wouldn’t lift his finger to save two cowpunch- 



296 


The Round-Up 


ers from a quarrel. Besides, I am beginning to 
have a strong suspicion as to Nightbird’s identity 
after this night’s work. I am trying to make all 
of the facts fit together now.” 

“I dunno,” said Frank stubbornly. “If you’d 
been with us yuh’d have th’ same idea we got.” 

Jack shrugged. 

“ I wonder if Martin has ever been to Mac¬ 
Gregor Gap,” he said. 

“Martin? Why Martin?” puzzled the 
puncher. 

“ They might be somebody up there who would 
interest him.” 

“What d’yuh mean?” 

“Oh, just some private business of Martin’s. 
I thought th’ Gap might be a likely place. Just 
listen to that thunder. And Patty is out in all 
this.” 

His voice broke slightly and his companion 
reached over and squeezed his arm. 

“You hold tight, Jack,” he said to the younger 
man, sensing the wildness that was rising in the 
other’s breast. “We’ll get ’em, yuh betcha.” 

At the ranch they nearly caused an exodus with 
their news, an exodus which would have been com¬ 
plete despite Montague’s instructions had not 
Harrison quickly named ten men, including him¬ 
self and Curly, to remain behind and dared them 
to make for the corrals. 

Just after the others had ridden off the storm 
broke in all its expected fury and the disappointed 



The Outrage 


297 


men consoled themselves with the meager satisfac¬ 
tion that they were not facing the wind-driven rain 
and that, due to the other activities of Nightbird, 
they wouldn’t have to venture out on the DZX 
range tonight. 

The night passed, also the next morning, and 
they heard nothing from the various posses and 
nothing from the Blaine farm. It was late in the 
afternoon when they rode out over the muddy 
range to round up the herds which had wandered 
far back into the draws and coulees for shelter 
against the weather, that they made a startling 
discovery. More than three thousand head of 
choicest steers had completely disappeared during 
the night and the terrific rain had washed out all 
traces of possible trails. 

They could have gone east across the state line, 
north toward the Arkansas, or south toward the 
Red River. It was barely possible that they could 
have been driven northwest toward the Canadian 
River, right between the watchful posses, so 
brazen and colossal was the steal and so stormy 
had been the night. 

A mind as keen as a whip had planned the en¬ 
tire raid. Blaine’s daughter had been abducted 
and his buildings fired to draw the DZX punchers 
and all other cattlemen westward. Then, under 
cover of the rain, the main band of Nightbird had 
cut out the best steers of Montague’s herd while 
every puncher available was chasing the decoying 
vandals toward the west. 



298 


The Round-Up 


Ten men could do nothing here. Besides, there 
was the remainder of the herd to guard and care 
for. Chagrined and cursing heartily, Harrison 
directed the work of the remaining punchers. 
Curly set out northward in search of Bill Mon¬ 
tague. 



CHAPTER XXIY 

COWMEN RIDE 

T HE lamps were lit and turned high in the 
great living room of the DZX ranch house. 
More than twenty-four hours had elapsed since 
the wanton and ruthless raid on the Blaine home¬ 
stead. All of the minor posses had returned 
empty 7 handed and were gathered on the DZX. 
Perth, upon whom was pinned the last fading 
hope, had not returned nor had he been heard 
from. 

The room was almost crowded with serious¬ 
faced men — ranchers, citizens, U. S. marshals, 
punchers, and prospectors, many of them well 
known in the annals of the Southwest. The news 
of the outrage had spread as rapidly as a prairie 
fire and in place of five range holders at this pre¬ 
arranged meeting there were fifty nren. Numerous 
punchers thronged about the place, invaded the 
corrals, demolished the provisions, and nearly 
drove the flying Sing Li frantic by their frenzied 
demands for more food. 

Bill Montague sat with Judge Ryan and Sheriff 
Carruthers at his desk and faced a semicircle of 
hard-eyed cattlemen. 

“ Boys,” he said. “ Pm mighty glad to see you 
all here tonight. On the surface it looks like a 
299 


3oo 


The Round-Up 


game to recover Blaine’s daughter, Patty, and my 
cattle only. I know that you are all with me, gun 
and saddle, for this alone and I thank you. But in 
reality it is a showdown between this highly or¬ 
ganized and growing gang of crooks and the cat¬ 
tlemen and settlers of this country. It is the de¬ 
cisive clash between the keen brain of this un¬ 
known but not unknowing Nightbird and ours. 
And that he is not asleep we have just been given 
ample demonstration. Are we going to tramp 
out this evil now or wait until it outgrows us?” 

a Now! ” came the rumbling growl from half a 
hundred throats. 

“ I wrote to th’ Cattlemen’s Association uh 
coupla months ago ’bout this here Nightbird an’ 
his rustlin’,” stated a man by the name of Way- 
mire whose ranch lay somewhat north of Lebanon. 
“They come back with uh letter sayin’ th’ matter 
would be investigated in due course uh time. As 
for th’ sheriff — he ain’t showin’ no results either.” 

Carruthers cleared his throat and stood up. 

“ It’s true I ain’t caught Nightbird,” he said. 
“ But I been workin’ hard an’ I been tryin’ to git 
him but I ain’t had th’ loyal support uh th’ big 
men hereabouts. I’ve done th’ best I could under 
th’ circumstances.” 

“Do you think you deserve loyal support?” 
demanded Montague earnestly. “You’ve been 
playing politics in Lebanon with a crooked bunch, 
if I must speak plainly, and I for one haven’t seen 
fit to cooperate with you. However, I have not 



Cowmen Ride 


301 


hindered you in the least and if you have anything 
to say now, we’ll listen.” 

“ In uh matter like this I do deserve support,” 
declared the sheriff fiercely, passing over the ranch¬ 
er’s comment on his politics. 

“ You’ve been insisting that a man is Nightbird 
who simply can’t be. McQuirey was in jail and 
on my ranch too much of the time to have been 
the man you sought.” 

“Well, whoever th’ raider is, th’ thing to do is 
to catch him,” averred the official. 

“True. And I am ready to help capture Night- 
bird,” stated Montague. “The association is 
always slow in these matters, Waymire, so we 
must make the best of it at present. Maybe we 
won’t need them. 

“ I have been watching this growing trouble for 
some time and in a way I thought I was prepared 
for it, but this unexpected blow at Blaine was so 
devilish and so entirely unanticipated that Night- 
bird has drawn blood again and I have lost more 
than three thousand steers at the same time. It 
was a fiendishly clever and well-timed attack and 
even the very elements seemed in league against 
us. 

“ Most of us present have felt the touch of 
Nighfbird’s hand at one time or another and those 
who haven’t will probably have that pleasure later 
if we do not halt him. What puzzles me is, what 
do they do with the cattle? When once they lift 
them, the steers completely disappear. And by 



302 


The Round-Up 


the way have any of you heard from Perth ? He’s 
overdue now.” 

“ Here comes somebody down th’ hall now,” 
stated a man near the door. 

The newcomer proved to be Martin, the Ar¬ 
kansan. He entered the crowded room and made 
his way forward. 

“Hello, Martin,” greeted Montague. “How 
is Blaine? Any change?” 

“He jes’ come to uh li’l while ago an’ he’s 
callin’ fer his gal,” replied Martin soberly. “ Doc 
Sawyer says he thinks he’ll pull th’ough ’less he 
starts frettin’ too much fer his daughter.” 

“Have you heard anything from Perth?” 

“Yep. I jes’ got some sense into th’ two hired, 
hands when Miz Perth come over to take charge 
uh th’ house. That’s why Pm ready to ride. She 
said Perth an’ his punchers jes’ got back ’thout no 
luck ’fore she left. They’ll be right over here as 
soon as they eat an’ change hosses.” 

There arose a murmur of conversation as the 
cattlemen discussed matters generally. After a 
few moments the judge rapped for attention and 
began speaking to everybody generally. 

“ Sure an’ th’ identity o’ this scalawag they call 
Nightbird is very puzzlin’,” stated he. “Ivery- 
thing points so far as we can see to th’ Mexican 
who is ostentatiously a lieutenant o’ Nightbird’s 
accordin’ to th’ testimony o’ th’ rascal we cap¬ 
tured in th’ attempted bank robbery in Lebanon. 
Th’ sheriff seems to favor th’ McQuirey idea. 



Cowmen Ride 


303 


Personally, Pm thinkin’ it’s th’ other man we’re 
after. Sure an’ it might be another party from th’ 
both o’ them entirely. If anywan can offer any 
information here atall, atall, now is th’ time to 
talk.” 

He glared meaningly at Curly who was leaning 
against the mantel. The puncher swallowed em- 
barrassedly once or twice at the sudden attention 
and then cleared his throat. Every one turned 
expectantly and Carruthers gained a good pur¬ 
chase on his beard to listen. Martin turned from 
an appraisal of the sheriff with a look of supreme 
contempt. 

“Well, men,” said Curly, “I guess mebbe I 
oughta tell yuh what I know. I ain’t sure ’bout 
nothin’, but here goes. Me an’ Frank was out 
lookin’ for McQuirey an’ we got to MacGregor 
Gap. We had uh run-in with th’ bunch what 
roosts up there an’ this here Jim Dandy Mexican 
comes in jes’ in time to save our earthly envelopes. 
We takes him in pretty well an’ principal he wears 
uh black ridin’ cloak. I never heard uh this Mexi¬ 
can who calls hisself Pancho Diaz before, but he 
made uh toast to Nightbird an’ he knowed th’ 
country hereabouts an’ he seemed to have uh 
speakin’ acquaintance with th’ people. I ain’t 
makin’ no mar-vee-lous deductions but th’ cloak 
George Taylor got that night last week looked 
mighty familiar. It jes’ looks kinda funny, that’s 
all. Then yuh know what kind uh outfit is ’sposed 
to hang out down there at MacGregor Gap. Well, 



304 


The Round-Up 


they’re down there, all right.” 

“But if Nightbird maintains his secrecy from 
his men he would hardly show himself so plainly 
during the day. I hardly suspect a Mexican any¬ 
way,” spoke Montague. 

“I dunno,” ventured the sheriff. “To handle 
uh big gang yuh gotta be with ’em more’n jes’ 
uh while at night or they’ll git away from yuh. 
But it might not be th’ Mexican neither. Any¬ 
way we’ll git him. Now then, which way shall 
we go? It’ll all be guesswork at first. I figger 
they headed west, kinda south uh th’ Canadian. 
That’s why Perth musta missed ’em.” 

“Here’s Perth now,” said Spaulding. “What 
news, neighbor?” 

“None,” stated Perth heavily. “They didn’t 
go that way.” 

While the newcomer greeted a number of the 
men present Montague took his map of the 
country out of his desk and spread it out flat be¬ 
fore the gaze of the nearest cattlemen. 

“ Here’s a relief map of this country. Look 
at it. What do the rest of you men think about 
it?” he invited. 

A veritable war consultation and discussion of 
campaign took place, Carruthers doggedly hold¬ 
ing to his original theory regarding the westward 
flight of the rustlers. 

“ For the love of God,” implored Jack Mon¬ 
tague, entering the room, “come to some de¬ 
cision, gentlemen, if you want to ride with me. 



Cowmen Ride 


305 


The DZX men and all of the others are ready to 
go. While you argue here time is flying and no¬ 
body knows what might be happening. I can 
assure you that the rustlers did not pass through 
MacGregor Gap either last night or this morning. 
I covered that territory thoroughly.” 

Bill Montague smiled sympathetically upon the 
tense, drawn face of his son. Harrison patted 
the young man gently on the shoulder. 

“This ain’t idle sympathy, Jack,” he said. 
“ Remember, they can’t do no chariot racin’ with 
three thousand cattle. We’d lose time by goin’ 
wrong now.” 

There was a slight commotion at the door, and 
Sing Li came quickly into the room, leading a half- 
grown, raw-boned youth. 

“Young man cally message flo Missee Mon¬ 
tague,” announced the Chinaman. “You catchee 
boss sittee at desk,” he added to the boy, point¬ 
ing at the owner of the DZX. 

“ Come forward, young man,” said Montague, 
rising and eyeing the almost shrinking youth 
eagerly. “You have something for me?” 

“Yuh Mister Montague hisself?” demanded 
the lad cautiously. 

“ In the very flesh,” smiled the rancher winning- 
ly. “You say you carry a message for me?” 

“ Yessir. Yuh see, me an’ Paw is got uh place 
down nigh Poplar Grove an’ us ain’ botherin’ no¬ 
body. Us is got uh purty good well on our place 
an’ this mornin’ ’fore noon ’bout fifty men come 



306 


The Round-Up 


’long drivin’ uh million cows. They stopped to 
git water an’ me an’ Paw purty nigh pulled th’ 
well dry waterin’ ’em. We never coulda watered 
th’ cows. Paw said he thought they was some¬ 
thin’ wrong, but it was after we got back in th’ 
cabin thet we found two pieces uh paper belt down 
by uh big gold piece. I cain’t read, but Paw he 
spellt out thet we was to bring th’ folded paper 
to Mister Montague hisself uh th’ DZX ranch 
right away. So here I be.” 

Having delivered himself of this lengthy speech 
the boy fished around in one of his pockets and 
finally brought to light a torn and hastily folded 
scrap of paper. Montague took it quickly and 
perused the writing upon one side. 

“Th’ rustlers!” shouted several. “They’re 
headin’ southeast” 

“ Boy,” cried Jack, “ did you notice whether or 
not there was a lady with them?” 

“Yes, they was,” admitted the youth. “They 
wouldn’t let her say nothin’ to me an’ Paw.” 

“ Was there uh Mexican in th’ bunch? ” shouted 
Curly. 

“Are you sure they was fifty men?” queried 
Harrison. 

“I dunno. I dunno. I dunno,” cried the be¬ 
wildered lad. “They wouldn’t let us git close to 
them at all. Me an’ Paw drawed th’ water an’ 
four men carried hit ’round to ’em all.” 

“ Here, men,” called Montague loudly. “ Listen 
to this: 



Cowmen Ride 


307 


Have girl and cattle safe. All O. K. but 
punishing beef badly in forced marching. 
Headed for central stronghold I suspected in 
Kimish Mountains on Arkansas side. Entrance 
through narrow valley and gorge called Devil’s 
Cut. Look for Pot and Kettle.’ ” 

“Well,” snorted Judge Ryan impatiently. 
“Translate it an’ tell us who in hill wrote it?” 

“Uh traitor! Now we’ll get ’em,” shouted 
an exultant voice. 

“There is no signature, but it is from the same 
person who forewarned me of the intended bank 
robbery. That it is reliable I’ll take an oath.” 

“Ah!” ejaculated Carruthers sharply. 

“ Where an’ what in hill is th’ Pot an’ Kettle? 
Some wan’s kitchen outfit?” demanded Ryan. 

“ I cannot say,” replied Montague. 

“ Th’ Pot an’ Kettle is two big stones what look 
like uh big ole pot an’ uh big kettle,” spoke up 
Martin, the Arkansan. “They is at th’ end uh 
th’ long valley an’ at th’ mouth uh Devil’s Cut. 
Yuh go th’ough Narrow Valley, pass ’tween th’ 
Pot an’ Kettle, go th’ough Devil’s Cut an’ yuh 
come out in uh widenin’ fertile valley. They’s lots 
uh grazin’ ground after yuh once git thar an’ 
they’s uh way out to th’ south.” 

The sheriff eyed Martin quickly. 

“What d’yuh know about it?” he demanded. 

“ It’s close to my country down thar,” Martin 
stated simply. 

“ I thought yuh come from west uh th’ Cana¬ 
dian,” sneered Carruthers. 



308 


The Round-Up 


“I did — recently. Th’ Kimish Mountings is 
my home, though.” 

“This is prob’bly uh ruse,” stated Carruthers. 
“ I don’t want to make no mistakes.” 

“We’ll take a chance,” decided Montague. “ I 
rely on this note. If my judgment does not coin¬ 
cide with yours, suppose you organize a posse and 
take any steps you deem necessary.” 

“Nope. I’ll go with yuh. Yuh plumb sure uh 
yore ground?” 

“Absolutely.” 

“ Kee — rect, then,” endorsed the sheriff, iron¬ 
ing out the kinks in his appendage. “Let’s go.” 

“How far is Devil’s Cut from here?” one of 
the cattlemen demanded of Martin. 

“Not more’n two hundred mile southeast uh 
here I should judge,” calculated the Arkansas 
mountaineer. 

“Then the rustlers passed us in the night,” said 
Jack keenly. “They passed my bunch way over 
to the east — they’d never been west of Dallas 
Road at all. The part of the gang that — that 
went after Patty circled around before Spaulding 
could get his men going and cut eastward across 
Dallas Road to join the main bunch right behind 
my posse which had already started south. The 
rain helped to blanket the whole move.” 

“Either just behind you or just before you,” 
agreed the elder Montague. “Well, we’re ready 
to go. Everybody prepare for a long grilling ride. 
Sing Li will supply us with grub to hold us forty- 



Cowmen Ride 


309 


eight hours. Anything on the place is yours. 
We’ll start in twenty minutes, all of us that can 
go. Now then, young man, what is your name? ” 
The messenger who had been endeavoring to 
answer query after query put to him by the eager 
cattlemen turned to face the rancher. He looked 
up wordlessly. Then: 

u Yuh know Dan’l Thorston?” 

“ I believe not,” frowned the ranchman slowly. 
“What about him?” 

“He I daddy,” enlightened the youth. 

“Oh! All right, son. And you live near 

Poplar Grove? I’ll not forget you. Now-” 

“What’ll we do when we git to th’ state line?” 
asked Carruthers, who had been studying the 
map. “ My authority stops there.” 

“ If necessary we’ll follow them to the Gulf of 
Mexico,” retorted Montague grimly. 

“ JVhoopee-e-e-ee! ” shouted Curly, leading 
with a wild yell, and the rafters shook with the 
roar of lusty voices, while Carruthers looked from 
Jack Montague to Jed Martin and did not antici¬ 
pate an enjoyable ride. 

One hour later found the troop in the saddle 
and riding far into the southeastern corner of the 
DZX rangeland. Without figuring stops for food 
or rest, as neither pursued nor pursuers would 
waste any time, and allowing the rustlers a full 
twenty-four hours’ start with the cattle it would 
take forty-eight hours to overtake them. They 




3io 


The Round-Up 


based this estimate on the theory that they would 
be able to travel approximately twice as fast as 
the bandits hampered with a great herd. 

They rode hard despite the sheriff’s continual 
insistence that they save their mounts. As the 
hours passed and they penetrated deep into the 
country, fording streams and crossing lands that 
even Harrison had never traversed before in a 
lifetime spent in the Southwest, as they entered 
the broken country unknown to them where even 
the plainsman’s sense of direction deserted them, 
they saw the wisdom of having Martin the moun¬ 
taineer to guide the expedition. Thus, dawn found 
them a number of miles closer to the mountains. 

“Gosh! Th’ goin’ must of been great ’long 
here with uh bunch uh cattle,” grunted Frank as 
his horse slid down the crumbling side of a torrent- 
washed gully. 

They passed out of the rain belt and neared the 
state line —the homestead of the Thorstons. 
They had picked up the wide cattle trail in the 
mud, but here they ran across the first traces of 
laboring cattle. A dead steer lay at the bottom 
of a little draw. 

“ Damn! ” swore Harrison at the sight. 

Montague merely compressed his lips and 
glanced at the other grim-jawed cattlemen riding 
near him. Jack rode with his eyes fastened on 
the rising hills before him, a strange glassy expres¬ 
sion in his eyes. Martin glanced at the dead ani¬ 
mal and carefully shifted his battered shotgun so 



Cowmen Ride 


3i i 

that it rested more comfortably along the bony 
side of Hercules. He spat noncommittally and 
glanced at the silent young rancher beside him. 

“ Looks like a herd o’ elephants passed along 
here,” commented Judge Ryan. 

u How about it now, Sheriff?” queried Perth 
heavily of Carruthers. “ D’yuh at last concede 
that th’ rustlers drove them cows this way?” 

“ Kee — rect,” the sheriff admitted promptly. 
“An’ we’re gainin’ on th’ scoundrels, too.” 

Shortly after noon the posse crossed the line. 
They questioned the father briefly as young Thors- 
ton dropped out. Before night they were far up 
in the foothills. Dead steers became more and 
more numerous and that the living animals were 
suffering was apparent from the condition of those 
they were finding along the way. 

Being now in the wild and hilly country of the 
Kimish Mountains proper, they were forced to 
stop because of the darkness and their own weari¬ 
ness. The only consolation they had was that 
they had gained on the rustlers considerably and 
that the bandits themselves would have to halt 
also or else abandon the cattle. 

The grilling pace had begun to tell on their 
mounts and they were slow in hitting a fast gait 
at the break of dawn. Aside from this they were 
none the worse off for their eighteen-hour ride of 
the day before. All but born in the saddle the 
riders of the frontiers were as tough as jerked 
! venison. 



312 


The Round-Up 


The trail led through a natural rift in the hills, 
ever mounting, however, and Martin began to 
twist in his saddle and gaze lovingly from left 
to right. Even Hercules nickered slightly, a flare 
of his long-departed colthood blazing up. The 
two wanderers were home again. 

“Yonder’s Buck Knob,’’ said Martin once, 
pointing to a round summit that was barely visible 
through the blue haze that hung about the hills 
toward the east. “They’s more deer ’round that 
mounting than yuh can find moonshiners in th’ 
whole range uh hills.” 

“ The going is getting worse, men,” commented 
Montague later. “ Pick your way carefully. 
Have any of you been counting the fallen steers? ” 

“One hundred and seventeen so far,” re¬ 
sponded the DZX foreman immediately. “Oh, 
jes’ wait till I get my hands on them beef murder¬ 
ers.” 

They rode on in silence for a space, a silence 
of creaking leather, striking hoofs and blowing 
horses as the cavalcade of nearly one hundred 
riders wound up into the hills. 

Martin had just opened his moutK to say some¬ 
thing when the silence of the mountains was shat¬ 
tered by the echo of two shots which were fired 
so close together as to seem almost as one. 





CHAPTER XXV 

THE SHORTCUT 

BUSINESS is pickin’ up with somebody,” 
AJ declared Perth, drawing rein and holding 
up his hand. “ I guess we’re closer to th’ rustlers 
then we ’lowed, Montague.” 

“Have yuh figured out jes’ how we’re going 
to tackle ’em?” queried Rankins. 

Montague glanced toward the man in the van. 

“Hadn’t we better call a halt and send a scout 
or two ahead, Martin?” he asked. 

“Not yit,” the mountaineer returned. “Them 
shots was two mile up in th’ mountings if they 
was uh yard. Th’ echoin’ fools yuh in th’ hills. 
I’ll tell yuh when to stop.” 

“ Describe the country hereabouts a bit. Where 
are we now?” 

“ Ten mile ahead is th’ Pot an’ Kettle, but them 
is sure some mean miles.” 

“Then how an’ why th’ hill do th’ spalpeens 
go there?” demanded Judge Ryan irritably. 

He was feeling the terrific strain of the journey 
and making it heavily felt by the big mare he rode. 

“ Devil’s Cut is deep an’ narrow. They could 
hold it fer uh long time, plenty long enough fer 
’em to re-brand an’ rest up th’ cattle in th’ valley 
behind ’em. Then they can leave out th’ south 
3i3 


314 


The Round-Up 


end an’ make fer th’ level lowlands uh south 
Arkansaw.” 

“ It seems that we are playing a losing game 
then, according to your statement,” frowned the 
rancher. 

“Nope. Not now,” responded the Arkansan. 
“ ’Cause they ain’t gonna beat us to Devil’s Cut. 
I didn’t see no reason fer tellin’ yuh an’ lettin’ 
yuh worry ’bout that all th’ way up here, too. 
C’mon. They’s uh fork in th’ trail two or three 
mile along an’ right thar is th’ place I wanna hold 
uh pow-wow.” 

“ Kee—rect,” said Carruthers. “Now yuh’re 
shoutin’.” 

The promise of quick action stimulated the 
entire posse and they pushed forward rapidly. It 
was at the fork in the trail, where a slowly rising 
ridge divided the two roads, that they also found 
the answer to the revolver shots. As they rode 
up Martin was talking. 

“Now then, yuh see they took th’ righthand 
road ’cause that one leads right down into th’ nar¬ 
row valley. Yuh see it’s pointin’ south now. It 
curves ’round toward th’ east agin an’ runs purty 
nigh even ith this lefthand fork but th’ mount¬ 
ing here is between ’em. Th’ ridge startin’ here 
is Backbone Ridge an’ it gits steeper an’ wilder as 
th’ roads separate. Th’——” 

“Whoa! What’s laying there in th’ trail?” 
interrupted Perth, pointing with his rifle to an ob¬ 
ject ahead of them. 




The Shortcut 


3i5 


“Another steer,” gritted Harrison. “ They’ve 
taken to shootin’ ’em when they slow up.” 

“ Steer me legal diploma,” snorted Ryan. 
“Ye’re steer crazy, Jim Harrison. That’s 


“Man!” several of the vanguard chorused with 
the judge. 

The troop pulled up, and Frank and Curly 
sprang to the ground beside the still figure in rid¬ 
ing boots that lay face downward almost in the 
fork of the trails. 

“ Everybody else stay mounted,” called Harri¬ 
son quickly, wise old Indian fighter that he was. 
“ Mister Perth, yuh better take five or six men 
an’ ride uh hundred yards up one fork. Mister 
Spaulding, yuh better do th’ same for th’ other 
one. Mister Waymire, watch th’ backtrail. 
This’ll block any surprise that might be arranged 
for our particular benefit.” 

“ Right,” endorsed Bill Montague. “Although 
I hardly anticipate an ambush as they have no 
idea we are this close.” 

The detailed men rode quickly up the trails. 
Carruthers, in his office as sheriff, started to swing 
off of his horse just as Frank rolled the inert 
form over. 

“Tilby! Th’ Kentucky gambler!” exclaimed 
the surrounding circle of horsemen who could 
crowd close. 

Carruthers nearly fell from his horse in his 
violent surprise. “W — what’s that?” he fal- 





316 


The Round-Up 


tered. “Tilby? Th’ sonuvagun! ” 

Frank placed his ear to the gambler’s chest. 

“He’s still alive,” stated the puncher. “Jim, 
hand me down yore flask. Mebbe we can revive 
him.” 

The sheriff remained rigid in his saddle, look¬ 
ing like the equestrian statue of a Russian gen¬ 
eral, while the two Montagues, the judge, and the 
DZX foreman quickly dismounted and leaned 
over the stricken Kentuckian. 

A breathless and tense moment passed while 
Curly poured a stiff peg of raw whiskey down the 
throat of Tilby and Frank gently propped up his 
head. At length the gambler’s eyelids fluttered 
and a very faint color came back to his lips. 

“They ain’t no fake about this death, Judge,” 
said Frank soberly. “ He’s Weedin’ to death in¬ 
ternally.” 

“Tilby!” called the elder Montague softly. 
“ Can you hear me, Tilby?” 

The man’s eyes slowly opened. Unseeingly he 
stared at the faces above him. Finally his gaze 
settled on the DZX ranchman. A faint flicker 
of recognition glowed in his glazing eyes. 

“Montague,” he whispered. “I told them 
you’d come a-helling.” 

“We hardly expected to find you here, Tilby,” 
said Montague sadly. “We hardly figured that 
the Lebanon gamblers were in cahoots with Night- 
bird.” 

“They’re not, all,” whispered the Kentuckian, 



The Shortcut 


3i7 


his eyes dropping for an instant. 

Then he gazed into the compassionate blue eyes 
above him. 

“The raiding — the rustling — robbing — all 
been done by this gang,’’ he murmured. “The 
main gang is but a little ways ahead of you. But 
you’ll have to clean up MacGregor Gap — day¬ 
time quarters of the gang. I’ve never been there, 
but I know.” 

“Patty Blaine?” crisped Jack Montague, and 
the gambler’s eyes rested for a brief space on the 
face of the young man, an odd expression in their 
depths. 

“And I warned Owens to stay clear of you,” 
he whispered. “You’ve got a blazing soul that 
will consume your enemies. But I’m square with 
you. That’s how I got mine — the girl. She was 
taken as uh ruse but Nightbird is infatuated with 
her. I objected to that part of deal — I told ’em 
it would arouse countryside — they wouldn’t 
listen. Then yesterday the Mexican began mak¬ 
ing advances to her and she was frightened. 
Somehow, she appealed to me,” and Tilby smiled 
a crooked little smile. 

“Today — at the fork here — I could see no 
better place — I took stand against the chief here. 
The gang didn’t care — they wanted the cattle. 
I demanded the girl’s return. Nightbird drew 
his gun. We fought — I lost. Tried to help, 
Montague, but it was too late — too late,” he 
finished piteously, his pleading eyes swept the face 



3i8 


The Round-Up 


of the ranchman, beseechingly. 

“Sure an’ I don’t quite get th’ hang o’ this?” 
rumbled the judge. “ Do I follow you, Tilby, 
thot th’ Mexican is or is not Nightbird?” 

“ Is not,” whispered the gambler. “ Is lieuten¬ 
ant only.” 

“Ask him does he know who Nightbird is,” 
suggested one of the ranchers. 

“I know,” flashed Jack, and the sheriff looked 
at the speaker queerly 

“ D’yuh know who Nightbird is?” questioned 
Curly of the wounded man, enunciating the words 
clearly. 

“ Of course,” breathed the Kentuckian weakly. 

He slumped down and Curly quickly plied the 
flask. 

“It was a good — scheme, but it didn’t work 
out — somehow,” came Tilby’s voice at length 
in labored accents, faint and barely audible. “ I 
was — afraid — McQuirey — Nightbird-” 

His voice trailed off indistinctly. 

“So McQuirey is Nightbird,” cried Carruthers 
triumphantly, seizing upon the confused words of 
the gambler. “ Kee — rect. Kee — rect. I told 
yuh. See?” 

Tilby’s head drooped slowly forward onto his 
chest. 

“ I’m sleepy,” his voice came drowsily, whisper- 

ingly. “I tried to — help — Montague-* 

Heah cums th’ cunnel, suh. I been waitin’ heah an 
houah for yo’. That black rascal Tom toP-” 






The Shortcut 


3i9 


His form quivered slightly and he sagged 
limply. 

“ It’s dangerous to leave uh wounded man what 
ain’t dead on th’ trail behind yuh,” remarked Mar¬ 
tin cryptically. 

“Kee — rect,” agreed Carruthers heartily. 
“ Let’s git to goin’.” 

“You two boys go call Perth and Spaulding 
back,” Montague directed crisply to Frank and 
Curly. “ Now then, Martin, what is your plan? ” 

The mountaineer squatted in the dust of the 
trail. Jack Montague carried the body of the 
Kentuckian to one side of the road and returned 
to hear the discussion. 

“ If we split an’ part uh us rides ahead an’ 
beats ’em though Devil’s Cut, we kin bottle ’em 
up in th’ canyon instead uh them holdin’ us out 
at one end. Lemme show yuh how I mean,” and 
he drew a crude outline in the trail with his fore¬ 
finger. 

“How far are we from Devil’s Cut right 
now?” demanded Jack. 

“ By follerin’ th’ rustlers, ’bout eight mile. By 
goin’ this left trail toward th’ settlement uh Rocky 
Ridge an’ cuttin’ across Backbone at Cinnamon 
Gap it’s all uh seven mile an’ th’ goin’ is tumble. 
But we kin make it an’ beat ’em thar.” 

“ How far ahead do you figure the rustlers to 
be?” asked the elder Montague. 

“Not more’n three mile.” 

“That leaves five miles for them to go while 



320 


The Round-Up 


we have seven. But you say the going is bad 
across Backbone?” 

“We kin make it,” declared Martin confidently. 

Montague looked at the men about him. 

“That’s clear,” said Perth. “How’ll we 
ride?” 

“The DZX bunch will ride ahead and block 
them,” announced Jack decisively. “Let’s ride.” 

“All right,” agreed Spaulding. “Yuh boys go 
on. We’ll trail.” 

“Sure,” concurred Rankins. “Th’ DZX flos¬ 
ses are uh bit fresher by several miles, too.” 

“ Very well,” agreed Bill Montague. “ We will 
cut them off from their stronghold. You men 
ride hard and be sure to overtake them just as 
they reach the canyon or, when they find the 
lower end blocked, they’ll be liable to back out 
and get away through Cinnamon Gap — the way 
we go in. They would lose the cattle but we 
would lose them — and Patty Blaine.” 

“What are you figuring on doing with them 
after we bottle them up ? ” demanded Jack. “ How 
are we going to get Patty away from them?” 

“They will probably surrender,” said his 
father. “In case they don’t—” he paused. 

“They’ll wish they had,” finished Jack tersely. 
“Don’t do any dangerous firing, men, until we 
come to some further decision.” 

“They is uh rift in one wall ’bout half way 
down th’ gorge,” stated Martin slowly as he 
strove to re-visualize the spot. “This rift opens 



The Shortcut 


321 


on uh big round hole which is like uh straight 
shaft which runs up to th’ top uh th’ mounting. 
It is called Devil’s Hole an’ it sure is uh bleak 
lookin’ spot. If they’s much fightin’ th’ rustlers’ll 
prob’bly put th’ gal in thar. They won’t want 
her to git hurt none.” 

“ But how are we gonna hold further discus¬ 
sions, with th DZX bunch at one end uh th’ cut, 
us at th’ other an’ uh gang uh rustlers an’ cattle 
between us?” demanded Waymire who had rid¬ 
den up from the rear to enter into the discussion. 

“They won’t be no cattle thar,” stated Martin. 
“ Th’ posse ahead will have to let them on th’ough 
an’ then close th’ mouth uh th’ canyon. As for 
further arrangements an’ gittin’ together, jes’ 
leave that to me.” 

“ Let’s go,” cried Harrison. 

“ Kee — rect,” saluted the sheriff. “We’ll ride 
ahead. Which way yuh goin’, Jedge?” 

“ Sure an’ I guess I’ll be bringin’ up th ’rear,” 
stated Ryan to the company in general. “ Maggie 
can say she’s tired today an’ I’ll not be disputin’.” 

The two posses split and rode rapidly along the 
diverging forks, Judge Ryan urging his protesting 
mare in the wake of the larger and pursuing band 
of riders. 

The mountain craft of Martin came into evi¬ 
dence as the DZX punchers turned from the trail 
and rode up Backbone Ridge toward the rift he 
had called Cinnamon Gap. He led them over 
land that had never felt a horse’s hoof before, 



322 


The Round-Up 


over rocky woodlands that they could never have 
traversed had not the mountaineer been there to 
judge and to choose a way. Cinnamon Gap 
proved to be very little except a name. 

As is quite often true in the mountains, when 
they passed out of Cinnamon Gap and gazed 
down on the narrow valley below them, although 
they had gone forward continuously, the land 
looked so identical with that on the other side of 
the ridge that they could easily have imagined they 
were facing north instead of south. 

The shadows were lengthening and their time 
limit was growing short. Pausing only long 
enough to breathe the winded horses Martin led 
the way down the mountain slope, finding a path 
where there was none. He gazed toward the 
west along the wooded side of Backbone Ridge 
and held up his hand for silence as he listened. 
A faint rumble was audible. Then he pointed 
to the eastern end of the narrow valley below 
them where, at a distance of several hundred 
yards, Backbone Ridge rose sharply and the moun¬ 
tain slope on the other side of the valley leaned 
closer as though to whisper a momentous secret, 
giving the basin the appearance of a lop-sided 
bottle. The neck of the bottle was the narrow 
cleft between the two great hills. 

On each side of the narrow gorge rose a lone, 
gigantic rock, somehow separated from the moun¬ 
tain slope behind and bearing a misshapen re¬ 
semblance, one to a great pot and the other to a 



The Shortcut 


323 


kettle. In the mountain stillness with nothing but 
that ominous rumble, in the growing gloom that 
gathered above Devil’s Cut, they looked in very 
truth like infernal cooking vessels. 

“Waal, we beat ’em here,’’ grinned Martin. 
“Now, that canyon is about uh hunderd yards 
long an’ it opens into uh real purty valley where 
Backbone an’ Smoky over thar spread apart agin. 
We better git thar.” 

“We’ll hurry through and take up positions 
out of the way of the cattle,” said Montague. 
“Then, as soon as the steers run, we’ll blockade 
the end of the canyon. I want to see how it looks 
on the other side.” 

“Kee — rect,” nodded Sheriff Carruthers. “So 
do I.” 



CHAPTER XXVI 

RETRIBUTION 

B ACKBONE RIDGE proved to be very un¬ 
compromising and continued on in nearly 
a straight line along the second valley. Smoky 
Ridge was the mountain that drew back and al¬ 
lowed a wider basin at its feet — drew back from 
Backbone Ridge as though to watch the effect on 
its neighbor of the secret it had told. Smoky 
Ridge proved to be the gentler mountain in ap¬ 
pearance also, its height at this point not being 
over three hundred feet above the valley floor 
and its summit seemed smooth as a meadow in 
comparison with its wilder and unkempt looking 
neighbor. 

The DZX riders spent several precious minutes 
grouping themselves out of the way of the wildly 
running steers yet close enough to block the canyon 
when the last steers had run. The thunder of 
thousands of hoofs swelled in volume and echoed 
weirdly down the pass. 

“Where’s Carruthers?” demanded Harrison. 
They looked around startledly. The sheriff had 
disappeared. 

“ Could he have slipped in to look at that pecu¬ 
liar formation they call Devil’s Hole?” suggested 
Frank. 


324 


Retribution 


325 


“Hardly,” vetoed Montague. “It would be 
too dangerous. Some foolish steer might veer 
and take a notion to run in there. If so, in half 
a minute there’d be a deadly crush.” 

“An’ Martin! Martin’s gone, too,” bawled 
Curly. “Where’s Martin?” 

Without a word Jack Montague mounted his 
horse. 

“Where are you going?” demanded his father 
immediately. 

“ Don’t you realize why Carruthers rode on 
ahead with us?” replied his son. “As soon as 
we found Tilby in the trail I knew who was the 
head of this Nightbird gang. That blackleg stunt 
was just a clever trick and so was the murder 
of the station agent — just to look like mean re¬ 
venge and to blind us to the real purpose of rob¬ 
bing and rustling. 

“Who owns the sheriff? With whom is Tilby 
connected? Why should Nightbird hate Blaine 
enough to shoot him down and raid his place? 
What devil is infatuated with my girl? I de¬ 
nounce Horsehead Owens as Nightbird and I’m 
going after that sheriff right now before he can 
lead the bandits out through Cinnamon Gap.” 

“ By God! ” breathed Harrison. “ No wonder 
Carruthers never was able to catch Nightbird. 
No wonder he was tryin’ to lay it off on poor 
McQuirey.” 

“You’re right, son, you’re right,” endorsed 
Montague. “ The puzzle picture is now complete. 



326 


The Round-Up 


But it’s too late now to attempt to go back look¬ 
ing for the sheriff. It means death to be caught 
in the canyon by the steers.” 

“Yep. We gotta wait now,” added Harrison. 
“ Here come th’ cows already. Mebbe th’ sheriff 
won’t be able to warn ’em ahead of th’ other 
posse. Don’t startle ’em, now, boys. Start ’em 
to millin’ an’ we’ll have uh jam started an’ Devil’s 
Hole will be full uh deviled ham.” 

True it was that Sheriff Carruthers had been in 
a terrible quandary since the determined pursuit 
had been undertaken. That the message of the 
Thorston boy had saved the posse many hours 
and, correspondingly, lost the same number for 
the raiders, making a double total in favor of the 
posse, could not be denied. He had been taken 
quite unawares and unprepared and had had no 
time to go anywhere for advice or instructions. 
And who had it been who had tipped Montague 
off, sending a note by the Thorston brat? It was 
the same double dealer who had warned him about 
the bank business. 

That had startled them all, Nightbird included. 
They were still looking for the traitor when this 
last big deal was put over. It was put over so 
swiftly that the traitor had not had time to stop 
it. Yet he was enabled to send word to Montague 
later. And the identity of this unknown had puz¬ 
zled Carruthers exceedingly until the posse had 
come upon Tilby. Of course, it had been Tilby 



Retribution 


327 


although Montague had refused to say so. Damn 
Tilby for a white-livered skunk and also that 
Thorston kid. 

Personally Sheriff Carruthers was in quite a 
predicament. He had been forced to ride like he 
meant it and his futile attempts to slow the posse 
by sparing the horses had met with no success. 
His nervousness and uncertainty had gradually 
been increasing. When they had found Tilby, he 
had become nearly frantic, because it was just a 
step from the inclusion of Owens and the gamblers 
to rank suspicion regarding the sheriff. When the 
posse split and he rode ahead with the DZX out¬ 
fit Carruthers was very sick at heart. 

But in the heat and excitement of pursuit he 
was unquestioned. Then, as with the others he 
gazed down at the mouth of Devil’s Cut, had 
come inspiration. In that moment he rose to the 
height of his mental capabilities and saw the solu¬ 
tion to his problem. 

He had realized for some time that the cattle 
were lost to the rustlers and so was the girl. The 
bandits could hardly hope to escape with whole 
skins now that they were caught between two fires. 
Humanlike, he cursed them for making such a 
big play and placing his position in danger. Why 
hadn’t they foreseen that they would lose? They 
might have known just what would happen. The 
satisfaction that Carruthers would have felt, had 
success been assured, was conspicuous by its ab¬ 
sence. And he couldn’t switch sides and let the 



328 


The Round-Up 


rustlers be captured; they knew too much about 
him. 

There remained but one thing to do and it was 
a last, betraying chance for him if he failed. He 
must drop out of the posse somehow, warn the 
outlaws of the trap ahead of them and, while the 
steers blocked the pass of Devil’s Cut, lead or 
direct the bandits out through Cinnamon Gap just 
ahead of the pursuing posse. This would allow 
them to escape both factions of the posse and get 
safely away to country where they could disband 
and scatter. Whether or not he himself could 
return and mingle with the posse soon enough to 
resume his duty as sheriff depended on circum¬ 
stances and luck. Anyway, he had a chance — 
freedom at least. The other way he had none. 

Reasoning thus, he dropped slowly toward the 
rear and as the last man entered the narrow can¬ 
yon, intent on hurrying forward, Carruthers 
jerked his surprised horse to the left and passed 
before the great pillar of rock that resembled a 
pot and pulled up his mount. Waiting an instant 
to see if he would be missed and if anybody would 
return to look for him he pretended to be looking 
and listening for the oncoming cattle. Somehow, 
this wasted play acting with no one but himself 
to see, soothed the tumultuous beating of his heart 
and made him feel as though his deception could 
not be observed or termed as such as long as he 
pretended to think he was watching for the steers. 

He began riding up the valley at last, searching 



Retribution 


329 


feverishly for the spot where the posse had come 
down Backbone Ridge. Every place looked alike 
to him, there seemed to be dozens of places where 
cow ponies had descended and the muttering 
thunder of the oncoming cattle beat against his 
eardrums until he thought he would go mad. At 
length he found a point which seemed to offer 
more than a bare foothold and which appeared to 
allow space to ride up toward the mountain crest. 

Forcing his gasping horse up the incline he 
made, in a sharp diagonal, for the thicket which 
he was certain concealed Cinnamon Gap from be¬ 
low. He had barely gained his objective before 
the first of the hard-run steers came lumbering 
into the little valley from the trail toward the 
west. Carruthers dismounted and clutched his 
beard, muttering nervously to himself as he 
anxiously waited for the cattle to enter and block 
the narrow canyon. He would try to warn the 
rustlers in protection of his county office. Failing 
in this, he could go on by himself and make his 
way northwest. He had always wanted to go to 
Montana or Wyoming anyway. 

The steers — and steers in such a condition as 
to make a cattleman cry — began milling and 
turning uncertainly at the neck of the little valley, 
shying away from the forbidding cleft before 
them. But as the hundreds and hundreds behind 
them pressed forward, literally filling the valley 
from slope to slope with a sea of tossing horns 
and restless bodies, with more steers yet to enter 



330 


The Round-Up 


the little vale, the very weight and momentum 
forced the leaders into the neck of the bottle. 
“Ah!” 

Carruthers breathed aloud, almost sobbing in 
his relief. It would be only ten or fifteen minutes 
before Nightbird and his men came into sight now 
and he twisted his beard ecstatically. He reached 
nervously into a breast pocket for one of the long 
black stogies he enjoyed chewing on. 

“Uh huh! Yuh are uh dirty traitor jes’ like I 
figgered, huh?” 

The guilty Carruthers whirled so quickly that 
his tired horse jumped. He stared in heart-grip¬ 
ping anguish up the slope. At a point a few paces 
above him, leaning calmly against a blackjack 
pine, his short shotgun pointing unpleasantly 
toward the sheriff, stood Martin. Martin, the 
mountaineer, who by all rights should now be 
penned up on the other side of Devil’s Cut. 

Carruthers dumbly remembered the Arkansan’s 
words about taking care of discussions between 
the two posses, but to do that he would have to 
go over one of the mountains and he couldn’t 
have made it under several hours. The sheriff 
was petrified. He could not find words to speak. 
He stared stupidly at his accuser, round and 
glazed of eye as a stunned ox. The mountaineer 
must have dropped out of the posse while he him¬ 
self was still thinking about it. 

“ Mebbe yuh jes’ was cornin’ up here to keep 
th’ rustlers from gittin’ away th’ough Cinnamon 




Retribution 


33i 


Gap?” suggested Martin helpfully. 

u Kee— Kee — rect,” stammered the sheriff. 
“I reckoned as how — seein’s th’ Gap was open 
— mebbe they ud try — prob’bly they would of 
got away-” 

“Yuh already got enough on yore mind. Yuh 
didn’t need to bother none,” interrupted Martin 
derisively. “I done moved th’ Gap.” 

Carruthers tried to appear at ease. He tried 
to think of something to say which would divert 
Martin’s suspicions. He could not. He won¬ 
dered if he could shoot Martin before the other 
could raise and aim his shotgun. He was growing 
more and more self-conscious and nervous and 
the seconds were flying. He searched his pockets 
for a match he did not want. He found it and 
dropped his stogie. Awkwardly he stooped to re¬ 
trieve it. He could feel the mountaineer’s sneer 
at his clumsy dissembling; he could feel the other’s 
suspicious gaze burning through his eyelids trying 
to read his downcast eyes. Tremulously he 
straightened up and struck the match, preparatory 
to holding it to his cigar. Then: 

“Yuh’re uh damn pore liar, yuh cattle-runnin’ 
sheriff, yuh,” stated Martin scornfully. 

The guilty man could not restrain a start for 
the very reason that he had been tensing himself 
to hear just some such remark. He jumped and 
looked up anxiously, one eye on the shotgun. His 
long whiskers swept across the lighted pine sliver 
in his hand. There was a quick flare and Mr. 




332 


The Round-Up 


Carruthers’ beard, his beloved appendage, his 
inseparable conversational aid became a pillar of 
fire. He yelped wildly and beat fiercely at the 
stifling flames with frenzied hands. The idea to 
slide his hands down his beard as was his regular 
custom, thereby extinguishing the flames, came to 
him too late. He saved but a remnant of his once 
luxurious foliage. 

The rather awe-inspiring sight of a little valley 
completely filled with bellowing, running steers, 
the surrounding wooded mountains, the beauty of 
a gorgeous sunset, was lost on the men on the hill¬ 
side. The sullen roar of the passing cattle filled 
the air and a great dust cloud hung in the evening 
light, but this also went unheeded. 

Martin threw back his head and leaned almost 
helplessly against the bole of the tree as he shook 
with hearty laughter. The clumsy, pawing sheriff 
reminded him of a great brown bear raiding a 
honey tree and finding the bees too many for him. 

Severely burned and surrounded by the pleasing 
aroma of singed hair, Carruthers succeeded in put¬ 
ting out the flames. The Arkansan glanced at the 
miserable looking man below him before gomg 
into another gale of laughter. 

The laughter died in^his throat, the mirth went 
out of his eyes, and a startled, incredulous expres¬ 
sion came into his face. His brows drew down 
and he took a quick step forward. He saw a bare 
and glazed spot, nearly square in its outline, al¬ 
most in the center of the sheriff’s receding chin 



Retribution 


333 


which was quivering and all adance from uncon¬ 
trollable nerves. 

“ Thompson I ” he cried. “ Thompson! ” 

And the veins corded on his forehead. 

“ Kee — hristmas!” gasped Carruthers, at¬ 
tempting to stroke together the beard which was 
no longer there to cover and hide his scar. 

Martin’s face worked spasmodically. His 
breath came in short jerks. He seemed to have 
forgotten the gun which hung loosely in the crook 
of his right arm. 

“Thompson ,’ 1 he sobbed, “yuh left him layin’ 
thar. Yuh thought he was dead but he lived fer 
four days ’thout no water even. Yuh made him 
suffer worse’n I kin make yuh suffer—an’ jes’ 
fer uh team uh hosses. Yuh left his woman ’thout 
no man; yuh left his babies ’thout no pappy. 
Yuh-” 

“Huh?” demanded the amazed Carruthers as 
awful fear gripped his vitals. 

“ Yuh murderer! )y hissed Martin. “ Yuh killed 
my brother Hugh Martin at th’ three forks.” 

“Hugh Martin?” screamed the sheriff. “My 
Gawd! I thought he said his name was Morgan.” 

Vivid, raw, leaping fear suddenly vitalized his 
muscles and his revolver seemed to jump from its 
holster. But his speed availed him nothing as 
the Arkansas mountaineer is deadly effective with 
a rifle or a shotgun. 

The muzzle of Martin’s gun swung up in a per¬ 
fect arc. 




334 


The Round-Up 


“ It’s th’ same gun, Thompson,” he said as he 
pulled bpth triggers. 

And the outlaws entered the valley just in time 
to hear the two-noted bellow of a shotgun. 



CHAPTER XXVII 
devil’s hole 


S CARCELY had the echo of the shots rolled 
away into silence when the rustlers were 
fairly in the valley and peering upward at both 
mountains with guns drawn. But nothing re¬ 
motely human was visible to their straining eyes. 
Martin had withdrawn behind the scrubby growth 
that Carruthers had thought masked the mouth of 
Cinnamon Gap and had taken the riderless horse 
with him. 

In the van of the hard riding gang, upon a 
horse between a lithe and graceful Mexican and a 
fair-haired youth of classical features and pale 
blue eyes, rode Patty Blaine, nearly blinded and 
suffocated by the thick dust despite the silk hand¬ 
kerchief the Mexican had forcibly tied over the 
lower part of her face. 

Her features were drawn and wan, still show¬ 
ing the trace of the tears the passing of Tilby 
had elicited. Her hair was tumbled and her 
form drooped with weariness. Her linen dress 
was crumpled and wrinkled. But her tragic eyes 
burned with a steady flame that fright, terror, and 
fatigue could not quench or subdue. 

There were thirty-nine riders in the band, in¬ 
cluding the girl. Bringing up the rear rode an 
335 


336 


The Round-Up 


athletic form which, like the more slender Mex¬ 
ican in the lead, was covered with a black riding 
cloak. In addition this form, which sat its horse 
like a centaur, was completely masked by a close 
fitting black domino. He radiated an air of domi¬ 
nant ruthlessness and lethal efficiency which was 
pronouncedly felt by those about him. 

A floundering heifer caught his eye and he 
unslung his carbine to shoot. As soon as he ob¬ 
served that the unfortunate animal’s leg was 
broken he lowered his gun. Why shoot anything 
that would die anyway? Why cut short its suf¬ 
fering? 

As the sullen roar of hoofs lessened in the val¬ 
ley because of the blanketing effect of Devil’s Cut 
a new sound broke upon their ears, the sound of 
horses’ hoofs behind them. The cloaked rider 
with the unslung carbine whirled in his saddle and 
strained his eyes through the thick haze of dust 
and gathering night. He could distinguish noth¬ 
ing, but the sound grew plainer. 

“We are followed,” he called in a penetrating, 
keen, unpleasant voice. “Through the canyon and 
deploy, half to left and half to right. Diaz take 
charge. Cherub take care of the girl. Ten men 
halt at this end to hold the canyon with me. Ride, 

you----,” he finished with a string 

of horrible nasally intoned curses. 

They thundered in between the Pot and Kettle 
and Nightbird halted with the ten men he had 
ordered to remain. They could see the indistinct 




Devil’s Hole 


337 


forms of their pursuers now and they laid rifles 
across saddles and began firing at the vague fig¬ 
ures. The masked man smiled cruelly beneath 
his mask as he heard the agonized scream of a 
horse and the hearty curse of a man. 

“We’ve beat the---—,” he whined 

in his high voice. “ Start building a barricade 
here, five of you. The other five fire at anything 
that moves. We’ll hold ’em till doomsday.” 

The pursuit seemed to have ceased and the 
rustlers began hurriedly rolling stones together to 
block the canyon. Night was coming on with a 
rush and Nightbird mounted his horse to ride 
forward. 

“ Send for me if anything develops,” he 
snarled. “ Otherwise you’ll be relieved at mid¬ 
night.” 

A sudden outburst of firing from the other end 
of the gorge startled him and he spurred his horse 
cruelly to a reckless gallop down the gloomy can¬ 
yon. He had just passed the four foot opening 
of the rift in the canyon’s right wall and had 
glanced sharply within, unable to distinguish much 
but surprised at the amount of space he saw there, 
when a panic-stricken bandit came back to meet 
him in a shambling run. 

“Nightbird, we’re caught,” the man sobbed. 
“ Th’ cattle went through th’ canyon, but when we 
was follern’ there was uh bunch uh shots met us. 
Grant an’ three more was killed an’ one or two 
was wounded.” 




33 8 


The Round-Up 


“Fired on — with the girl there?” whined the 
leader. 

“ She wasn’t there. Cherub was bringin’ her 
along slow ’cause yuh had th’ canyon blocked. 
He didn’t see no need uh hurryin’. But they’s 
uh big posse ahead uh us. We’re caught like rats. 
What’ll we do? What’ll we do?” 

“Fight,” snarled his chief as he jabbed his 
spurs home to his spent horse, which cruelty gal¬ 
vanized the tortured animal to one supreme effort. 

He galloped down toward his trapped men. 
He found them behind a barricade hastily formed 
of their horses. One burly ruffian stood over the 
girl who was somewhat in the rear of the im¬ 
promptu living breastwork. The Cherub was 
engaged in firing at the unseen enemy while the 
Mexican was on his way to meet his superior. 

“Senor Nightbird,” he said rapidly, “thee can¬ 
yon shee ees too straight to defend, don’t you 
theenk? They weel rake eet wit lead from end 
to end before daylight. How about thee reeft 
een thee wall? Where shee lead?” 

“We’ll find out now,” rejoined Nightbird, and 
he whirled his mount to ride back. 

But the willing animal had given its all and it 
fell within its own length. The rider cursed hor¬ 
ribly as he narrowly missed an ugly fall and kicked 
the dying horse in the belly. Scrambling to his 
companion’s side he ran with the Mexican to the 
opening in Devil’s Cut against Smoky Ridge. 
They halted almost in fear as they gazed into the 



DeviVs Hole 


339 


place, and the leader glanced at his companion in 
time to see him cross himself. 

“Getting your nerve?” he sneered witheringly. 

“No, Senor,” replied the Mexican. “But I 
have seen more pleasant places.” 

They stumbled into the dark hole and strained 
their eyes. Diaz picked up a dried faggot and 
improvised a crude torch. With this they made 
a slow circle of the place, noting several points 
where they could climb up the sides as far as they 
could see — by exerting strength and agility. 

The cul-de-sac was of a peculiar formation. It 
was evident that Backbone Ridge and Smoky 
Ridge had once been solidly joined together where 
Devil’s Cut now was. In the pangs of some dis¬ 
tant cataclysm the mountains had split apart, leav¬ 
ing a narrow, deep cleft between them. On 
Smoky Ridge’s side, about midway of the gorge, 
Nature had further experimented by scooping out 
a perpendicular and cylindrical hole from the top 
of the mountain to the floor of the canyon like 
one would core an apple, a circular hole that just 
intersected the line of the gorge, thus forming the 
scant four foot rift. 

The hole thus formed was an almost perfect 
amphitheater, nay, rather a prison. For the sides 
were almost vertical, exposing naught but sheer, 
solid rock, the seams and strata of which showed 
plainly. It was almost night at the bottom of 
this natural dungeon which was some two hundred 
feet across, but the sinking sun gilded the scrubby 



340 


The Round-Up 


growth of bushes around the lip at the top with 
scarlet fire. Devil’s Hole was a fitting name for 
this barren shaft lost in the mountains. 

“What a hellish place,” whined Nightbird. 
“ But we can hold it against an army. Only a 
few can approach at a time to the rift. And we 
can climb out before morning.” 

“But eef we can’t?” queried the Mexican 
pointedly. 

“There is very little doubt of that — we’ve 
plenty of rope and nerve. If we can’t make it, 
we shoot our way out —or bargain. Remember, 
Diaz, we still hold our trump card, the card which 
that caviling gambler Tilby didn’t want dealt 
into this game. Where’d we be now without the 
girl?” 

“ Mebbe we would steel have thee catde and be 
far ahead of thee posse,” replied the Mexican. 

“ Don’t fool yourself,” snarled the other. “ No 
cattleman in the entire Southwest would stand still 
and see three thousand head of cattle lifted with¬ 
out a big scrap. I know them. Are you weaken¬ 
ing, just because we are in a tight?” he whined 
nastily. 

“No, Senor,” responded Diaz quietly, his eyes 
glittering in the fitful light of his torch. “ But 
thee men weel raise thees very question among 
others when they begeen to weaken.” 

“They won’t have time to weaken,” Night- 
bird’s nasal whine shrilled. “We’ll work ’em too 
hard getting clear. This is phenomenal pursuit, 



Devil's Hole 


34i 


though. I can’t understand it. I wonder if 
Tilby could have had time- 

“ Go take command at the Pot and Kettle,” he 
concluded abruptly. “ I’ll go back to the lower 
end and post several men with the Cherub. When 
I give the signal, you both fall back to this rift.” 

The Mexican saluted and slipped quickly out 
and up the canyon. He found the rear guard in 
a nervous state. They had heard nothing to ex-* 
plain those shots down the canyon and the lack 
of offensiveness on the part of the pursuers wor¬ 
ried them. His presence steadied the men and 
upon demand he calmly told them of the calamity 
which had befallen, subtly suggesting that they 
were completely trapped and would probably have 
to surrender and that to do so peaceably would 
count in their favor. 

His gloomy forebodings so affected them that 
when the eerie whistle of A night bird sounded 
twice down the gorge they fell back quickly 
toward the rift they had not yet seen. The incip¬ 
ient panic that possesses even the bravest man’s 
soul when he gives himself over to terror gripped 
them and they ran through the darkness, fright 
urging them to greater speed. The Mexican ac¬ 
tually grinned as he more slowly followed them, 
pausing now and then to listen for any sounds of 
stealthy pursuit. 

Several small fires of driftwood from the can¬ 
yon had been made and groups of tired and 
hungry men were preparing to cat what remained 




342 


The Round-Up 


in their saddlebags. They did not want for water 
as their canteens had been filled at the last-forded 
stream. Four men were busily erecting a fairly 
solid barricade across the mouth of the rift out 
of loose rock and boulders brought in from the 
floor of the gorge. Others were examining the 
weary and hungry horses. 

Behind one fire that was built close to the wall 
to the right of the 'opening sat Patty Blaine. She 
leaned wearily against the hard rock behind her, 
utterly unmindful of the masked figure that stood 
across the fire from her and studied her so intently, 
watching the flickering shadows play across her 
graceful white throat. 

Ever since her abduction a constant fighting of 
wills had been going on between these two. Patty 
hated this man as she had never dreamed she 
could hate any person. The very nearness of his 
presence filled her with loathing and horror. He 
was vicious, mean, poison all the way down to 
his black heart, this wanton pistoler of her father 
and then of the one man who had attempted to 
protect her today. 

Steadfastly she had refused to speak to him, 
to notice him, to recognize his presence whenever 
he drew near. Her mind was filled with the 
stunning blow she had received as she had seen 
her father clutch at his heart and fall with his 
face in the bowl of candied sweet potatoes. Some¬ 
thing constricted her throat whenever she thought 
of this pathetic little touch. 




Devil’s Hole 


343 


She wondered what Jack had said and done 
when he learned of the outrage. With a twinge 
of happiness she knew he would scour the country 
for her and woe be unto her captors when at 
length he got his hands on them. Except for 
four short hours the previous night they had been 
on the move continually and now this respite was 
so wonderful that she almost fell asleep where she 
sat. 

Her studied indifference and silent scorn stung 
the naturally egoistic man to the quick. She had 
carried herself so confidently when there had been 
not the slightest seeming chance of a rescue that 
now, when rescue seemed so near, the man knew 
what triumphant thoughts were behind those 
closed eyes, and he wanted to hurt, to crush, to 
beat down that tired but dauntless spirit which 
opposed him. 

As he stood regarding her through his mask, 
realizing that if there were no chance to gain the 
top of Devil’s Hole he must surrender the girl 
in the morning in exchange for his own liberty, 
his eyes narrowed uglily. And because of the sit¬ 
uation, Patty feared him tonight as much as she 
hated him. 

Her mind was going over and over the acute 
danger she was in and casting about for a buffer 
or a shield to be used against this demon who 
gazed down at her so steadily. She thought of 
the youth called the Cherub. That he was ego¬ 
tistical and ambitious for leadership she had seen. 



344 


The Round-Up 


But could she get him to clash with Nightbird 
while they were in such a predicament? And if 
so, what should she do if his blood became in¬ 
flamed? What would be her position with him? 

There was the Mexican. But he had started 
smirking at her the day before until she had felt 
ready to scream. She couldn’t trust him. The 
rest of the men were far too fearful to try con¬ 
clusions with three such men over them unless 
they acted in a body. And could she induce them 
to act in single accord? How could she even at¬ 
tempt to make the rounds of all those brutal, filthy 
male animals ? How could she even wildly imag¬ 
ine that she would be allowed to seek out each 
man unmolested? 

“Will you partake of our peasant’s fare, 
charming princess?” whined the man in his hor¬ 
ribly unpleasant and artificial voice which he used 
to mask his natural tones. “I regret we cannot 
lay before you a sumptuous fare of roast bullock 
as was my intention for this evening. The dis¬ 
turbing element of awkward louts without the 
battlements prevent greater freedom at present,” 
he concluded mockingly. 

Patty did not reply, but she quivered under his 
rasping voice. 

“ Speak and answer me, you stubborn chit.” 

She did not move. Angrily he stepped across 
the fire and caught her crushingly under the chin 
with one hand. 

“ I’ve had enough of this foolishness,” he 



Devil's Hole 


345 


snarled uglily. “ Now you talk or I’ll ram this 
gun barrel down your throat.” 

She opened her lips, panting for breath. 

“Help!” she screamed faintly. 

Instantly he clamped his free hand roughly 
across her mouth. Without the slightest hesita¬ 
tion she bit down, her sharp little teeth cutting 
into the flesh like a knife. 

Nightbird released her throat with a curse, 
banging her head cruelly back against the rock to 
release his hand. 

“Damn you!” he shrilled, wrapping a silk 
handkerchief about his injured left member. 
“ Ritchie! Come and watch this she-devil until I 
relieve you myself. Cherub, hunt for a recess or 
a crevice of some kind in the wall where we can 
put this tigress. If she moves, Ritchie, lay her 
out — cold. Diaz! Take charge at the barri¬ 
cade.” 

The circular pit became the scene of bustling 
activity as variously assigned duties were per¬ 
formed. The growing ill-humor of the men at 
their plight was stayed for a time. Nightbird 
himself began making a careful examination of 
the walls of their prison. 

The Cherub found a sizeable hole which an¬ 
swered for a cave, fortunately out of direct line 
of fire from the rift. After the leader had ex¬ 
plored it himself and found it to be but a blind 
crevice in the rock, he rudely ordered the weary 
girl to go there and to stay there. The man, 



346 


The Round-Up 


Ritchie, sat cross-legged at the mouth of the open¬ 
ing to guard her and the stench from his unwashed 
person made her weak with nausea. Yet, she 
shivered every moment in anticipation of the time 
Nightbird might assume guard himself when his 
other duties were attended. 

She felt cautiously about her, hoping against 
hope that she might find something her captors 
had overlooked. She found that the crevice ex¬ 
tended back several feet and had a fairly level 
floor. She crouched down at the rearmost corner 
and wide-eyed she watched the activities of the 
rough men who passed to and fro. She knew she 
could not sleep in the presence of such danger as 
encircled her. Besides, the stony floor was hard 
and unyielding and there was a musty odor as 
though some animal had once used this hole for 
a den. So she sat. rigid, arms wrapped about her 
knees, and thought. 

She started violently at the sound of shots from 
the rift. There was an answering fire from out 
in the canyon, the echoes ricocheting from wall to 
wall of the deep gorge. A number of bandits ran 
toward the opening as reinforcements. 

From that moment on there was continual rifle 
and revolver fire, an occasional slug of lead 
spatting dully against the wall some short distance 
away from her. There was no lull in the firing 
which at times grew hotter. Several men with 
torches began making the rounds of the pit with 
Nightbird, carrying ropes and talking together. 



Devil's Hole 


347 


Patty could distinguish sounds of climbing and 
sometimes the voices came from a number of feet 
above the floor of the shaft. But always they 
returned to the ground, cursing and hopeless. 

She knew that she could not sleep with all of 
this going on. She did not want to sleep. Who 
knew just when she might have need of wide¬ 
awake faculties? But overstrained, Nature as¬ 
serted herself. Slowly, in spite of her determina¬ 
tion to remain awake, Patty’s head nodded. Her 
tumbled hair swept forward, forming a veil before 
her trim little ankles, and she slept, lulled by the 
very shots she had thought would keep her eyes 
open. 



CHAPTER XXVIII 

TRAPPED 

A FTER the first volley fired at the rustlers 
as they followed the cattle from the mouth 
of the canyon when four of them had fallen and 
the bandits had withdrawn in confusion and made 
a breastwork of their horses, the DZX men were 
afraid to fire again in volleys as Patty Blaine 
might be somewhere in range of a stray bullet. 
Sprawled behind boulders and scrubby trees, the 
punchers began edging carefully forward. 

It was some time later in the darkness that 
Harrison made a stealthy reconnoiter when there 
ceased to be answering shots and found that the 
rustlers had quietly drawn back into Devil’s Cut. 
The punchers accordingly closed in on the mouth 
of the narrow canyon. 

“Now then, what?” demanded Curly. 

“They are corked up in the bottle,” said Bill 
Montague. “We’ll wait for the present until we 
hear from Martin.” 

“Can they git out?” asked one of the restless 
punchers. 

“ Only into Devil’s Hole, and you heard Martin 
describe that.” 

“I wonder if Carruthers is with ’em?” mused 
Frank. 


348 


Trapped 


349 


“If he is, he’ll wish he ain’t,” stated Harrison 
grimly. 

“ No smoking, boys,” said the rancher suddenly. 
“ It’s nearly black night and they can see the glow 
of your cigarettes. There’ll be no fires either. 
We eat what remains in our saddlebags, if any¬ 
thing remains.” 

“Where’s Jack?” demanded Sleepy Stearn, 
now very much awake. “ I thought I seen him 
over here by me.” 

“Jack!” called Harrison at once in a guarded, 
uneasy tone. 

There was no response. 

“Are we gonna sit here an’ do nothin’?” de¬ 
manded Curly impatiently. 

“ For the present, for the present,” repeated 
the elder Montague worriedly. “We can do 
nothing but get shot by butting in there with no 
definite plan of action.” 

For a time there was silence save for the 
munching of numerous jaws and the occasional 
gurgle of a tilted canteen. 

“Jack’s done slipped off up th’ canyon,” stated 
Harrison at length. “I’m gonna foller an’ see 
what’s goin’ on back in there.” 

“ Yuh kin all foller in thar now,” said a voice 
out of the night. “Th’ rustlers is all inside uh 
Devil’s Hole an’ buildin’ uh stone wall at th’ 
rift.” 

“ Martin! ” called the ranchman quietly. 

“ Here I be,” stated the Arkansan calmly. 



350 


The Round-Up 


“Yuh sonuvagun! ” exclaimed Harrison admir¬ 
ingly. “ How’d yuh slip up on us thataway ? ” 

“ I slipped down on yuh,” laughed Martin. “ I 
jes’ come down th’ mounting. All yore punchers 
was matin’ noises like mules in uli corn field an’ 
yuh jes’ nachurly couldn’t hear me. I been 
watchin’ ’em from th’ lip uh th’ crater up thar. 
They jes’ found uh li’l cave to one side uh th’ 
rift an’ they put th’ gal in there. They’re workin’ 
like uh pet coon after bugs in uh corn row, tryin’ 
to find some place whar they kin climb out. Yuh 
kin git close now an’ pepper ’em fer all yuh’re 
worth. Th’ gal won’t git hurt none.” 

“They ain’t nothin’ real definite in that,” ob¬ 
jected Harrison. “We can keep that up ’till we 
finally starve ’em out or run outa bullets an’ 
that’ll take uh long time.” 

“Yep. Yuh’re right,” admitted Martin calmly. 
“ But I’d advise yuh to do some purty heavy firin’ 
an’ do all kinds uh things to keep ’em all busy 
’till mornin’ comes an’ we kin do somethin’.” 

Several punchers sucked in their breath audibly 
as this idea went home. Then: 

“ C’mon, cowboys,” said Frank tersely. “ We’ll 
keep ’em so busy loadin’ it’ll wear th’ ends uh their 
fingers off. An’ if necessary we’ll storm ’em an’ 
take their playhouse away from ’em.” 

“ They got us in their power yet,” cursed Har¬ 
rison softly. “Oh th’ devils.” 

“ Not exactly in their power although it is true 
we may have to strike a bargain with them,” re- 



Trapped 


35i 


gretfully spoke Bill Montague as they turned to 
him for guidance. 

“No!” came Jack Montague’s metallic voice 
from the depths of the canyon behind them. 
“There will be no bargaining. Patty is safe, 
Dad. Have you forgotten?” 

“No, I haven’t forgotten,” replied the ranch¬ 
man quietly. “Have you been up the gorge?” 

“Yes, sir. They are impregnable here. But 
I am going to capture them somehow before to¬ 
morrow. They’ll be out of water by morning and 
I am not going to have Patty suffer anything 
more.” 

“ If th’ gal’s safe enough, yuh kin sure git ’em,” 
agreed Martin. “ Listen once while I tell yuh 
how.” 

Patty Blaine came to herself with a start to 
find that she was cold and numb, with a cramp in 
her neck. It was dawn and a thick white mist 
filled Devil’s Hole so that she could not see five 
feet beyond the cave entrance. The rifle fire 
from the direction of the canyon continued un¬ 
abated. 

Massaging her neck, she crawled to the opening 
of her little refuge and peered out. Her out¬ 
stretched hand rested upon something soft and 
yielding. It was a human body and she drew back 
quickly, thinking of the unclean Ritchie with a 
qualm of disgust. 

Instantly the form of a man arose from across 



352 


The Round-Up 


the opening of her little cave and smiled down at 
her in the half-light. She could hardly repress a 
shriek of fright as she recognized her guard. 

“Ah! Good morning, Senorita,” he greeted. 
“You sleep well? Ah, you are cold. Plees take 
my cloak. Tck! Tck! How utterly thoughtless 
of me. You weel excuse? I have so many 
theengs on my mind I forget. Senor Nightbird 
has been very busy quelling a mysterious mutiny 
wheech took form during thee night. Si, take eet. 
I eensist. Eet weel be a slight protection against 
thee chill unteel thee fog shee leeft.” 

The Mexican had quickly removed his cloak as 
he spoke and now he tossed it about her shoulders 
“himself as she kneeled in the cave mouth staring 
fascinatedly up at him. This done, He turned his 
back upon her and seated himself squarely in the 
mouth of the opening. 

Patty shrank involuntarily from contact with 
the rich cloth but its folds were gratefully warm 
and she reluctantly wrapped it closely about her 
chilled frame. So Nightbird had been busy sub¬ 
duing a mutiny. And where was the man Ritchie ? 
How long had the Mexican been there at the 
entrance to her shelter and why? 

She studied the lithe back before her with its 
short braided jacket. On his right side she ob¬ 
served the slim, graceful handle of the long-bar¬ 
reled pistol that rested so snugly against his thigh 
in rts tied-down holster. On the left was the 
keen, slender knife in its sheath. She couldn’t 



Trapped 


353 


help thinking how everything about this debonair 
rascal seemed to take on his own characteristic 
of grace. She speculated and wondered deeply, 
all the while the light growing stronger. 

The handle of the gun riveted her attention. 
Could she creep forward unheard and snatch it 
from its holster? If she could—and did, what 
should she do with the Mexican? And with him 
disposed of, could she escape all or any of the 
others? She did not know, but at least she would 
be armed and not quite so helpless. Even as she 
considered such a move Diaz turned his head and 
smiled pleasantly. 

“ For two days I do not have thee chance to 
talk wit you,” he stated. “ Eet ees not thee chance 
now. But I say to you, don’ you be ’fraid, Seno- 
rita. Whatever happen, you stay een here — 
far back een corner. I weel try to keep you here. 
But quien sabe? I theenk much weel happen 
shortly. Take thees knife so eef you need 
heem-” 

He shrugged prettily, suggestively, and flipped 
back at the astounded girl’s feet the long, keen 
stiletto from his belt. 

She gazed at him, dumfounded. 

“Pick eet up! Queeck!” he commanded 
sharply, and she slowly grasped the cold steel 
weapon and drew it under her cloak. 

Calmly he turned his back to her again, placing 
his life in her hands. Patty felt that she had 
made some kind of an error in her judgment of 





354 


The Round-Up 


this man, but just how she was uncertain. He was 
a bewildering character certainly. What had he 
meant about something going to happen right 
soon? The posse had been attempting a passage 
all night. He surely hadn’t meant that they were 
about to win through? In that case there would 
have been more excitement on the part of the 
bandits, of the Mexican himself. Were the 
rustlers, then, going to surrender? Had the 
mutiny proved successful? 

The sun was rising unseen here in the depths 
of the mountain but not unfelt. Rapidly the 
master of the skies was drawing and sucking up 
the low-hanging blanket of cold, damp white that 
hung like a pall over the low points of the moun¬ 
tains. As the fog lifted from the floor of the 
shaft and climbed and billowed up the vertical 
walls the Mexican raised his head and followed 
its progress appraisingly. He leaned forward 
and craned his neck upward. As the obscuring 
vapor of white neared the top of the shaft he 
smiled a trifle and turned to look expectantly 
toward the rift into Devil’s Cut. 

Curiously Patty crept forward and gazed up¬ 
ward. What had Diaz seen that caused him to 
face the rift so pleasedly? As the white cloud 
became translucent and she could see far up the 
vertical shaft, the meaning behind the Mexican’s 
words smote her full force. Of course! How 
simple it was! Part of the posse had climbed the 
mountain during the night and even now were 




Trapped 


355 


rimming the lip of the Hole far overhead and 
but waiting for the fog to lift. 

With her person back in a crevice and safely 
out of harm’s way the cattlemen could control the 
situation and capture every one of Nightbird’s 
gang, holding them with their rifles from above 
while those out in the canyon could come in and 
disarm them. She was as "good as rescued. The 
rustlers were trapped. 

Then her rising hopes fell flat. A figure came 
running across the uneven floor of Devil’s Hole 
even as there was a cessation of firing. 

“All right, Diaz,” came the Cherub’s voice. 
“We can’t make it, so Nightbird is signallin’ to 
th’ posse outside to bargain for our freedom. 
We’ve lost th’ pot this hand an’ gotta play our 
trump card. Bring out th’ girl. Quick!” 

The Mexican rose to his feet and faced the 
youth calmly. Patty clutched the stiletto con¬ 
vulsively. Oh, what could she do to remain here 
for five more minutes ? Just five previous minutes 
to hold out to keep the murderer of her father 
from bargaining his way out with her as the pur¬ 
chase price. The beating of her heart swelled to 
a tumultuous thundering. As from a distance she 
heard the words of the surprising Mexican. 

“Senor Cherub, I am ver’ sorry, but eet ees 
impossible,” said Diaz in a soft regretful voice. 

“Huh?” 

The Cherub was astounded at the other’s state¬ 
ment. He stared blankly for an instant. Then, 



356 


The Round-Up 


suspicion flared up in his pale blue eyes. 

“Oh ho!” he drawled. “Double crossing 
eh? Now we know who has been tippin’ off tli’ 
cattlemen. Now I know why yuh stepped in be¬ 
tween me an’ that smart guy that day at Mac¬ 
Gregor’s. Haul out that damn female where we 
can shoot her if they try to take us. I’ll tend to 
yuh later,” he concluded with an ominous scowl. 

“ The Senorita weel remain een thee shelter you 
find so kindly for her last night,” replied Diaz 
gently. “Go back and tell Nightbird eet ees best 
he surrender. You see? Look up at thee top of 
thee shaft. Eet ees too late.” 

“ Cherub! ” came the awful nasal whine of 
Nightbird. 

The Cherub seemed to twitch only and a .45 
appeared in his hand, a happy smile playing about 
his lips. Patty did not even have time to catch 
her breath before the shot came. Despairingly 
she clutched at her throat as she waited for her 
newly-found protector to fall — waited with an 
agony that lasted for ages. 

Dimly she could see the cloaked figure of Night- 
bird running rapidly toward them, could see be¬ 
tween the legs of the Mexican. She wondered 
dully why the Latin did not fall. 

Diaz staggered back against the mouth of the 
cave, but he did not fall. Instead, a pitiful, 
startled expression crossed the Cherub’s hand¬ 
some, girlish face. He quivered convulsively and 
then crumpled to the ground in a sprawled atti- 



Trapped 


357 


tude. And then it was that Patty noticed the 
Mexican had drawn his gun and held it clamped 
to his hip. As is the way with most killers the 
Cherub had at last met a faster man. 

As the horribly cursing bandit chief neared 
them, a ray of sunlight struck the top of the west¬ 
ern wall. The fog had lifted. 

“ Hands up, down there,” bellowed a hearty 
voice from the heights above. “ Ivery mother’s 
son o’ ye. Ivery domn wan o’ ye is covered 
entirely.” 



CHAPTER XXIX 

NIGHTBIRD 



HERE was the crack of a single rifle and 


JL a bullet flaked a bit of rock before the very 
feet of the running leader. He halted within 
three yards of the Mexican and glared upward. 
The entire rim of the crater was lined with rifle¬ 


men. 


An utter silence ensued as each and every rustler 
grew rigid in the position in which he had been 
caught. 

“ Drop ivery sign o’ guns ye have,” commanded 
the judge’s bellow. 

There was a rattle and a clatter as the trapped 
rustlers obeyed. Blind with rage and fury Night- 
bird tossed his weapon to the ground and raised 
his hands. 

u Clear over to th’ side uh th’ pit away from 
th’ hosses,” commanded a new voice from the 
rift, and the figure of Harrison appeared on top of 
the pile of stones. 

Sullenly the outlaws moved in the designated 
direction, Nightbird alone remaining perfectly 


still. 


Diaz felt blindly for his holster and shoved his 
gun into it. Dizzily he leaned against the wall, 
his left arm hanging uselessly at his side. A 


358 


Nightbird 


359 


thick scarlet liquid ran down his hand and began 
dripping off his finger tips before the horrified 
eyes of Patty. The Mexican was wounded. 

She crept swiftly out into the daylight beside 
her protector as a swarm of DZX punchers 
headed by Jack Montague scrambled over the 
half-demolished barrier opening into the canyon. 

“Jack! Jack! Jack!” she screamed hyster¬ 
ically at sight of the man running toward her, 
and she went off into a gale of nervous laughter 
alternated with sobs and tears. 

“ Patty girl,” he cried. “ Pm coming.” 

“This poor fellow was shot protecting me,” 
babbled Patty sobbingly. “ Oh, how many men 
are going to be killed?” 

Something bursted within the heart of the 
masked rustler. All of his plans were gone awry. 
He had lost the cattle; his men were captured. 
One of his own lieutenants had betrayed him and 
he was losing the woman who had fired his blood 
and had been the cause of this swift disaster. 

He shot one swift glance at the Mexican. The 
man stood drunkenly on his feet, against the wall, 
his head on his chest. And in his holster so near 
the outlaw’s hand was a loaded revolver. 

With the suddenness of a startled deer he 
leaped across the Cherub’s body and clasped the 
girl tightly in his arm and swung her before him. 
With his other hand he jerked the Mexican’s gun 
free from its holster and leveled it along the 
struggling girl’s cheek. 



36 o 


The Round-Up 


“Damn you, Montague,” he whined in a hor¬ 
rible shriek. “ I’ll get you anyway.” 

He pulled the trigger but the desperately fight¬ 
ing girl destroyed his aim. He fired again and 
Jack Montague jerked queerly and staggered, but 
he continued to come on. Again Nightbird fired 
and Jack felt a hot pain along his ribs. 

He was powerless to return the fire because 
the devil was shielding himself with a form that 
was most precious to Jack Montague. No one 
else was close enough to help but the Mexican, 
and he was practically unconscious on his feet. 

Jack Montague did not want help. He did not 
want to return the fire of the masked man. He 
knew that he hated this man with all the power 
of his capable heart. He knew that he wanted to 
kill him, kill him with his bare hands — grasp 
that throat beneath that black domino and tear 
out the vital sinews one by one while the man 
writhed in agony beneath his hands. He knew 
that he was going to do it and he laughed aloud. 

His eyes burned with an unholy flame and his 
fingers crooked unconsciously. 

“Fire away, Owens,” he exulted. “Shoot 
again because I am coming after you. I’m going 
to kill you, Owens, kill you with my naked hands. 
Shoot! You can’t get away from me.” 

The bandit crushed the girl’s body cruelly 
against him to stifle her struggles. He attempted 
to draw a careful bead upon the man who ap¬ 
proached so inexorably. Once more his weapon 



Nightbird 


361 


barked, and a red crease shot across Montague’s 
left temple. 

“ Five more steps,” taunted Jack purringly. 
“ I’ve got you, Owens. I’ve got you.” 

His voice rose in demoniacal accents. He had 
walked straight into the gun, never swerving, 
never dodging. The watchers on the mountain 
above stood in spellbound painfulness. The DZX 
men and the rustlers stood within arm’s length of 
each other and watched the uncanny spectacle as 
one man. Harrison, near the end of the line and 
closest to the main figures in the drama, stood 
rigid, gun in hand and unable to use it. 

Suddenly Patty freed one of her arms and a 
knife glinted in her hand. The Mexican raised 
his head blearily just as Nightbird gave the girl 
a severe wrench. She uttered a cry of pain, and 
the stiletto flew from her hand and fell at the 
feet of Diaz. 

Bill Montague wanted to cry out to him to seize 
it and stab the masked man, but his vocal muscles 
would not act. He would not have had time, as 
the action was taking place in lightning-like 
flashes. But the Mexican must have received a 
telepathic message which got to him across the 
numbing nerves of his brain. He leaned over 
to pick up the knife. But he had lost too much 
blood and was too far gone. He fell forward on 
his face as Nightbird pulled the trigger almost 
against the advancing man’s chest. 

But the move he had made to disarm the girl 




36 2 


The Round-Up 


of the knife had swung him about ever so slightly 
and three-quarters of his head became visible to 
the DZX foreman. Unnoticed by the others, the 
grizzled old Indian fighter laid his gun across his 
left forearm and aimed carefully, breathing a 
prayer as he pulled the trigger. 

Never had Harrison made a prettier shot. His 
bullet took the bandit just above the ear, and the 
shock spun the man about so that his last shot 
against the broad chest of Jack Montague went 
crosswise, searing the young man’s left breast and 
striking the face of the wall far up the opposite 
side. 

Jack caught the fainting girl as the bandit 
dropped to the ground between his two lieuten¬ 
ants. 

Harrison calmly blew the smoke from the bar¬ 
rel of his weapon and glanced coldly at the dis¬ 
armed rustlers. 

“I guess that concludes Nightbird,” he said. 
“All yuh cow runners face about an’ cross yore 
hands behind yuh unless yuh wanna wear uh 
asbestos nightshirt tonight. Boys, tie ’em up, but 
don’t cripple ’em. We’re gonna make ’em carry 
every damn cow back to th’ DZX.” 

Bill Montague ran to the side of the fallen 
Mexican and propped him up against the wall. 

“Thee game shee ees played,” muttered Diaz. 
“ Viva la Deezy X.” 

“Whiskey!” called Montague and Frank and 
Curly brought flasks forward quickly from the 



Nightbird 


363 


saddlebags of the rustlers. 

“McQuirey,” urged the ranchman. “Take a 
swig of this. You’re worth a thousand dead men 
yet. Let me congratulate you and thank you.” 

“McQuirey!” shouted Frank and Curly in 
unison. “ Th’ sonuvagun! ” 

“McQuirey?” bellowed Judge Ryan. “Mc¬ 
Quirey again? Just who in hill is this McQuirey 
anyway? ” 

“The best detective of the staff of the Cattle¬ 
men’s Association,” called Montague in response. 
“And that’s the reason you didn’t get a more sat¬ 
isfactory answer when you wrote, Waymire. Mc¬ 
Quirey was already on the job.” 

While the two punchers plugged the hole in 
McQuirey’s shoulder, exposing the white skin 
under his clothes to do so, Montague turned 
quickly to his son. 

Jack stood with the girl locked in his embrace, 
swaying on his feet and staring stupidly down at 
the masked man at his feet. He did not realize 
that he held the dead weight of the girl in his 
arms. He saw nothing but the form of his enemy 
who had escaped his vengeance by death. 

“Where are you shot, son?” queried the father 
anxiously. “ Is Patty hurt, or has she just 
fainted? Come, let’s revive her and examine 
you.” 

“Why—why don’t he get up and fight?” said 
Jack thickly. “I never touched him. Is he 
scared?” 



364 


The Round-Up 


“The man is dead, Jack,” stated the elder 
gently. “Owens is no more.” 

“Who?” murmured McQuirey, lifting his 
head from Curly’s shoulder. 

“Owens,” answered Frank as he neatly band¬ 
aged the detective’s shoulder with a shirt torn to 
strips. “Horsehead Owens of Lebanon.” 

“ Give me a drink of whiskey and take a look,” 
advised McQuirey. 

Bill Montague gave his ex-puncher a queer look 
and with Harrison, who now came forward, rolled 
the form of Nightbird over. The DZX foreman 
grasped one corner of the black mask and ripped 
it from the dead man’s face. 

The features of Jackson the Chicago gambler 
mutely faced the sky. 

“Well, I’ll be plumb damned!” swore Harri¬ 
son softly. 

“Hurry, ye spalpeens, an’ tie up them rapscal¬ 
lions,” shouted Judge Ryan from the heights. 
“There’s wan divil a bit o’ explainin’ thot I’m 
wantin’ meself. 1 ’ 



CHAPTER XXX 


CONCLUSION 



WO hours later the members of the entire 


JL posse were gathered before a great fire at 
the eastern mouth of Devil’s Cut where a steer 
was rapidly assuming the form of breakfast. The 
rustlers were tied in pairs and a guard was placed 
about them. The tired and weary horses of 
captors and prisoners alike, eagerly cropped the 
dry valley grass along with the DZX steers. 

Jack had been examined by his anxious parent 
and Harrison. He was found to have a minor 
wound in the shoulder, a seared mark on his tem¬ 
ple, on his side, and on his chest. His injuries had 
been more mental than physical. How he had 
managed to walk straight into the fire of the 
crazed gambler and come through so unscathed 
was due to extreme good fortune as well as the 
struggles of the girl, whom Jackson had used as 
a shield, and the absence of a foresight on the 
Mexican’s gun. 

McQuirey lay in a quickly-fashioned litter, sur¬ 
rounded by eager listeners. 

“Now, what do you want to know?” asked 
Montague for him. 

“Th’ whole story,” demanded Harrison. “An* 
don’t yuh leave out nothin’.” 


365 


366 


The Round-Up 


“Where shall I begin?” smiled the rancher. 

“At th’ beginning” suggested Curly. “ Me an’ 
Frank is abysmal in our ignorance.” 

“All right. You see I had been expecting some 
kind of trouble ever since Jack made that peach 
adjustment with Owens. At the first hint of 
rustling and robbing I sent for McQuirey because 
I knew that we could not handle the trouble 
makers in Lebanon and determined rustlers, too. 
It happened that he arrived upon the night that 
Myers was killed. Jack was in town to meet 
him — that’s how he happened to be in Lebanon 
that night. McQuirey told him that he would 
show up the next day as a tramp puncher looking 
for work. Jack put him in possession of all of 
the details we had at our command and returned 
to the ranch. 

“McQuirey’s initials being the same as Jack’s 
was quite a coincidence. When he was caught 
hanging around the station the next morning he 
mussed up the murder deal frightfully. His rea¬ 
soning was too acute for Carruthers and hit so 
near the truth that he was locked up. 

“ When he failed to show up on the ranch that 
morning I sent Martin in to find out why. I had 
made Martin’s acquaintance at Blaine’s place. So 
Martin bailed McQuirey out and that left the 
detective free without my hand appearing in it 
at all.” 

“Then th’ story Martin was tellin’ in me office 
after Higgs brought him in — th’ story o’ a 



Conclusion 


367 


masked man cornin’ to him in th’ farmyard— 
was a fairy tale, eh?” commented Judge Ryan. 

“Yes, Judge, it was,” admitted the rancher. 
“ It was told then because I was beginning to have 
my suspicions concerning the Lebanon crooks. 
We weren’t sure that Owens and Jackson were im¬ 
plicated in this Nightbird affair but if they were, 
that story would puzzle them. 

“It so happened that they were the brains of 
the entire affair and therefore Martin’s story 
threw them in a quandary. They knew that Night- 
bird didn’t bail out McQuirey and Carruthers 
went so far as to call Martin a liar before he 
thought. They might have suspected Pancho Diaz 
but he was unheard of at that time. He may 
have come in for a heavy grilling later, at that.” 

“I heard about it,” grinned McQuirey. 

“But, Bill, why did yuh keep me in th’ dark?” 
asked Harrison reproachfully. “Yuh had me 
plumb worried to death for uh while.” 

“ Forgive me, Jim. I don’t know a soul in 
the world that I would trust sooner than you, 
but nobody in this country knew who McQuirey 
was except Jack and me. You see, he was joining 
the gang of rustlers at his first opportunity, either 
as McQuirey or as some one else, depending on 
circumstances. Had they known or heard the 
least thing suspicious about him his life wouldn’t 
have been worth a snap. So because a good ma/n’s 
life hung in the balance I took no one into my 
confidence.” 



368 


The Round-Up 


“ I 9ee now why Jack went back to town with 
th’ posse,” cried Frank. “It was to allow Mc- 
Quirey plenty uh time to git away an’ turn into 
Pancho Diaz.” 

“Yes,” nodded the rancher. “He hid himself 
in the bunk-house while I pinned his note, to the 
sheriff, on the door for him.” 

“ But why did Nightbird let him wear uh black 
cloak, too?” demanded Frank. “That made 
about fifteen more complications.” 

“ It was for that very reason,” murmured Mc- 
Quirey. “ It protected him.” 

“ So it was from this same Irish spalpeen was 
it, Montague, that ye learned o’ th’ intended bank 
robbery? An’ it was McQuirey too who left th’ 
note at th’ Thorstons?” 

McQuirey smiled slightly, his white teeth show¬ 
ing faintly behind his little mustachios. 

“ I have thee honair, Senor Judge,” said he. 
“ Eet was I.” 

“What scoundrel shot at Jack in Hawkins’ 
Draw?” demanded Perth. “I heard somethin’ 
about that.” 

“I believe Martin can answer you that ques¬ 
tion,” stated Montague softly. “His brother 
was far less fortunate than my son.” 

“Well, it was a smart trick ye played on me,” 
rumbled Judge Ryan. “Here I run me legs off 
— that is, I run Maggie’s legs off goin’ out to 
get ye to make bond an’ asweatin’ blood for th’ 
b’y an’ there ye sat at yer desk laughin’ up yer 



Conclusion 


369 


sleeve wid th’ whole shebang cut an’ dried. Ain’t 
ye a pretty wan to do th’ auld judge thataway?” 

“Yes, Judge, I am,” admitted the ranchman 
frankly. “ I felt ashamed about it, but I simply 
couldn’t help it.” 

“Aw, g’wan wid ye, ye domn hardhead,” 
snorted Ryan hastily. 

“ But there was a joker in the deck for all of 
us,” pursued Montague. “ We mis-guessed Night- 
bird’s identity. He played an awfully smooth 
game — pretending to play against us in one way 
so he would be perfectly free to really work 
another game.” 

“ In the whole case there is but one thing I 
really regret,” said McQuirey weakly. “That 
was Tilby’s forlorn attempt to rescue Miss Patty 
when he clashed with Nightbird at the fork in 
the trail. I didn’t suspect him of so much honor¬ 
ableness. When he halted and demanded the 
return of the lady I could do absolutely nothing 
but sit on my horse and watch him throw his life 
away. I could neither help nor hinder him.” 

Patty Blaine sobbed at the recollection and 
buried her face on Jack’s sound shoulder. 

“Never you mind, little girl,” said Bill Mon¬ 
tague gently. “ Tilby merely made amends there 
for many past misdeeds. He knew his danger 
when he made his stand. And rest assured that 
he passed out happily and contentedly. We got 
to him before he died and I know.” 

“Say, if Jackson was Nightbird all th’ time,” 



370 


The Round-Up 


suddenly put in Judge Ryan, “how could he be 
robbin’ th’ Lebanon Bank an’ then come runnin’ 
in th’ front door wid th’ crowd at th’ same time?” 

“Easy,” smiled McQuirey. “As he escaped 
through the back door he purposely loosened his 
cloak. When the men there shot at him he real¬ 
ized that he was practically cornered. So he fell 
and lay still. When they came near enough to 
grab him he left his cloak in their hands and 
darted straight across the alley toward the court¬ 
house. Doubling around the block toward the 
Texas Hotel, he tossed his hat aside, hid the silk 
domino in his pocket and drew forth a green eye- 
shade. Then he calmly walked right back into 
the bank with the crowd.” 

Jack placed his arm tenderly about the sobbing 
girl’s waist and drew her slowly away from the 
crowd of men. They strolled out toward the 
grazing cattle, leaving the sound and feel of 
bloodshed and violence behind them with the talk¬ 
ing men. 

Since being jarred back to sanity by the sudden 
realization that Nightbird was not the man he 
thought he hated — Owens, when he looked back 
and saw the wild beast he had become in that 
moment when he had walked forward with the 
intention of throttling the bandit with his bare 
hands, Jack had felt deathly sick at his stomach. 
He had gazed down at the various outlaws who 
had met violent deaths. 

He had looked at the surprised features of the 



Conclusion 


37 i 


handsome Cherub while Frank had identified the 
youth as the soulless killer of MacGregor Gap. 
He had noted the round dark little bullet hole 
right under that white left breast where one tiny 
atom of flying lead, directed by McQuirey’s uner¬ 
ring hand, had entered and had stilled that heart 
forever. 

He had looked upon the remains of Jackson 
the gambler, the man of active life and violent 
deeds, stopped utterly by a little gun in the hands 
of Jim Harrison. 

Kill! Kill! Kill! That seemed to be man’s 
object and purpose on earth. Life was nothing 
more than a never-ending struggle of one man 
against his neighbor from birth to death. Man 
was ruthless, cruel, ever destroying. Everything 
he touched he turned into an engine of destruc¬ 
tion. Every living thing that fell into man’s hands 
was to be pitied. 

The natural reaction had set in on Jack and 
he was utterly sick of strife and bloodshed. His 
stomach turned at the thought of the sordid, 
prosaic, ugly bodies lying back there awaiting 
burial. Not having made his kill and exulting in 
the taste of justifiable violence, Jack’s feet were 
held back from the pitfall of ecstasy in the taking 
of human life. 

Thanks to Jim Harrison he had safely navi¬ 
gated the waters of blood violence which take so 
much of one’s finer self away and leave nothing 
in return save a life or a character such as the 



372 


The Round-Up 


Cherub’s, or Jackson’s. The watchful hand of 
the DZX foreman had reached forth and saved 
his soul the tarnishment of having killed a man. 

His arm tightened about the girl’s waist as he 
breathed a prayer of thanks for the safety he 
began to dimly understand was his. 

At this telltale pressure Patty raised her clear 
eyes and looked long into his face. 

Since the day of his fight with Owens, Patty 
had noticed a difference in Jack which had hurt 
her. It was like a stiffening steel wire which 
resisted and rebuffed her. Now, as she read what 
was in the man’s eyes, read his sickness and his 
misery, her own eyes filled with tears. She drew 
his head down and tenderly kissed him on his 
burning eyelids. 

“ I still have daddy and you,” she whispered 
happily. “ Everything else will clear up like mist 
in the morning sun.” 

They faced the east as she spoke and almost 
as if in answer to her words the first shaft of sun¬ 
light fell across the valley, gilding the backs of 
the moving steers a golden brown. 

A faint whisper of a morning breeze stirred, 
rushing to the east to greet the new day and 
wafting to their nostrils the appetizing odor of 
the sizzling beef over the fire behind them. Jack’s 
nose twitched and he inhaled hungrily. Then he 
hugged Patty to him tightly. 

“ Patty, sweetheart, I love you,” he murmured 
in her ear. “And gee, but I’m hungry.” 



Conclusion 


373 


She laughed delightedly as she caught him by 
the ears and kissed him firmly on the mouth. For 
she knew that she had her healthily boyish lover 
back again. The sky was bright with promise. 



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